


Sherlock Advent Calendar 2014

by AtlinMerrick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent, Advent 2014, Emo, M/M, Sex, Wee vignettes of love and sex, sexy emo?, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 21,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2826707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wee John and Sherlock silly-emo-sexy Christmas stories, prompted by images...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Little Black Knickers That Couldn't

Sherlock's a genius.

_Definition of:_ a person of exceptional intelligence, either generally or in some particular respect.

The final four words explain why Sherlock, who can infer three penile piercings based on the state of a man's hairbrush was, nevertheless, perplexed by a dozen pairs of knickers John gave him over the course of one frisky month. This is because Sherlock _In Some Particular Respects_ Holmes is a genius as regards crime but, at the beginning of his romance with John, had not one hot clue about _sexy._

The thing is, Sherlock's corpulent in the hind area. He's broad in the beam, swells in that sector, Sherlock is, to put a plump point on it, rounded in the rump. So for the life of him he couldn't understand why John gave him knickers which did not _cover his acreage._

Yes, they were luscious, those sheer frillies. Sherlock did not even know he knew what luscious knickers looked like, then he realised he did because _these_ were the definition of luscious: Strappy, lacy, see-through, each pair inspired in Sherlock a desire to put them on and _strut._

So in the heavy-breathing comforts of their own bedroom, Sherlock took those knickers from John, put them on, and…tried…to…strut.

The problem was, Sherlock's fleshy fundament refused to stay within the panty's scanty confines. Instead of strutting Sherlock tugged, he yanked, he even clenched in an effort to keep those knickers from riding right on _up_ the crack of his arse.

But Sherlock _In Some Particular Respects_ Holmes is smarter than the average knickers-wearing bear. Eventually he got it, the absolute and unequivocal point of petite panties: They were not meant to contain the plump prizes beneath, they were instead a sartorial come-hither, the equivalent of a chin-down gaze and demure hand placed over the privates.

They were, in sum, meant to incite _that_ noise and _those_ frantic gestures in John _Oh Dear God Get On Me, Get Under Me, Ride Me Like a Pony_ Watson.

Sherlock knows this, oh yes. Because Sherlock's a _genius._

_I've been fighting depression this last year and not always well. Things reached a crisis in the last couple weeks when I stopped writing for the first time in over four years. As silly as it seems, I've decided black knickers, belly buttons, and honey bees are part of how I'm going to cope. Soooo, over the next nine days I aim to write thirty teeny tiny 'Advent' stories using[these images](http://atlinmerrick.livejournal.com/98551.html) (or [bigger ones here](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/tagged/sherlock-advent-calendars-2014)). I wish you a fine December._


	2. Draw You My Penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes there are no words for I am sorry...

Sometimes words dig you a hole so deep that there aren't words enough to get you out.

John is emphatically not Sherlock. Hurt him and he'll go silent, straight-backed, he'll walk away. Sherlock? He'll use every sharp word he knows to cut himself a piece of healing flesh.

So the night they failed to right a wrong in time, a too-long night that left three people with literal wounds in need of healing? Well Sherlock wasn't prepared to learn how cutting John's words could be.

Which was why he did nothing after John blamed him for the terrible things another man did, simply stood there and broke apart in silence. John didn't even notice.

Soul-weary, hungry for the terrible peace that came from laying blame, John was too busy railing at everyone and every thing until—a shattered tea mug and one cruel accusation later—John finally fell silent, went straight-backed, and walked out of the flat.

He returned hours later, tip-toe quiet, and hushed by shame.

In streetlight dark he saw Sherlock, curled up and sleeping on the sofa. More than anything John craved the comfort of stretching himself over Sherlock's body, whispering penance into his sweetheart's ear.

The shame kept him from doing either. Instead it hushed him through the flat, crawled him fetal into their chilly bed, and gave him fitful sleep.

He woke to a grey dawn and the unwelcome knowledge that shame feeds on time's passing. As the moments ticked by John wondered what he could say, what he could _possibly_ say to unsay words he didn't mean?

The answer: Absolutely nothing.

Though maybe, just maybe, there were things John could do.

* * *

The sofa in 221B is good for a host of things: A petulant curl-up. A weekend snuggle. A rousing rut. It is not good for a good night's sleep if you're six feet tall. So Sherlock was tiredly stretching kinks from his long, naked frame when he felt a fingertip slide down his spine.

Head hanging low between shoulders, back bowed, Sherlock stilled, held his breath…and then Sherlock felt the words.

Careful, methodical, slow, slower, slowest, John Watson drew his penance with a single, gentle finger. 

 _I…am…so…sorry,_ he said from one shoulder blade to the other.

 _I grieve for them…_ he said in a half-circle round ribs.

 _I'm ashamed…_ he said at the bow of that back.

And then once, twice, three times John said-wrote-Brailled-hummed-breathed along Sherlock's arms, down his legs, across his fine and beautiful arse… _I love you, I love you, I love you._ And there, on his knees, John pressed his forehead against that sweet swell of flesh and he waited to see if maybe, just maybe, he would be forgiven.

He didn't wait long. Only as long as it took Sherlock to turn, kneel, gather John close and, with skin-against-skin and a fast-thrumming heart, write _yes John, yes John, yes._

 _First, so very many, many thank yous for your wonderful comments in the previous chapter. As strange as it sounds your permission to me to feel what I'm feeling helped_  so _much, as did all of your other sweet words and advice. Thank you, also, to lovely Okapi for sharing her evocative idea of[drawing apologies on your lover's skin](http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/6314837)._


	3. Four Days, Nine Hours, and Twenty-Two Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh for heaven's sake Sherlock, I'm Greg. Lestrade? I bring you cases."

It was a chilly morning in October when Sherlock shouted _taxi_ at a barista and _coffee_ at a taxi. He ended up spilling his double shot, extra hot latte all over the cab's back seat after falling asleep so soundly the cabbie heard his snores right through the divider.

In the afternoon of that same brisk day Sherlock put three drops of blood in his tea and a dash of milk on his slide. Then he drank the tea and spent twenty minutes trying to figure out why the culture on his slide was dead.

In that day's early evening Sherlock said yes to an offer of genital herpes and no to the promise of a case. Fortunately the person offering the first was joking and the one offering the second was an exceedingly-patient Gregory Lestrade, who finally asked, "What the hell, Sherlock?"

The man so named turned from his favourite St. Bart's microscope, opened his mouth…and had absolutely no idea who the grey-haired man beside him was.

"Oh for heaven's sake. I'm Greg. Lestrade? I bring you cases."

Sherlock said nothing.

"You yell at me."

Sherlock slow blinked.

"We're _friends."_

Just as Greg was closing Sherlock's mouth with a finger beneath his chin, John Hamish Watson whistle-bounced his way past the lab door. He winked at them, finger waved, and giggled his way on down the hospital corridor.

The detective inspector watched him go. The detective inspector suddenly detected. He now understood _exactly_ what was going on.

Lestrade smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock did not smile back. One fine cheekbone mashed against two microscope eyepieces, Sherlock Holmes was fast asleep.

Greg made tut-tut sounds. With great care he pushed Sherlock sideways, until his upper half bonelessly draped itself over the lab bench. Sherlock began drooling immediately. Lestrade draped the lab's fire blanket over Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock snuffled a soft snore.

As if in answer, a distant, manly giggle emanated from somewhere deep within St. Bart's.

Lestrade's grin grew. Near as the good DI could tell—and he was pretty sure he could tell to the nearest half-dozen hours—John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had been lovers for a little over four days. Greg hypothesised that John, exceedingly experienced, was in prime sexual conditioning. On the other hand and so to speak, Sherlock had zero sexual knowledge and so probably bugger-all in terms of sexual fitness.

Postulating these truths, Lestrade was confidently able to conclude that Sherlock Holmes was completely, totally, one hundred percent shagged _out._

Greg tugged the fire blanket a bit higher, patted Sherlock's shoulder, and strolled from the lab, whistling.

_I don't know about you but to me those heavy-lidded eyes of Sherlock's say 'fucked out' so loudly I'm wincing. And on that note: Merry Christmas to all who celebrate and a lovely day to all who celebrate something else. As always, thank you for the gifts you give me all year—your words._


	4. The Tree of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is an emotional man...

Sherlock's an emotional man. Before John most of that feeling was expressed in grand fits of petulance, pique, exasperation, and snit, pretty much in that order.

After John was another thing entirely.

After John Watson entered Sherlock Holmes' life, his bed, and his body, Sherlock began expressing his emotion in terms giddy, grand, and, some rare times, almost lyrical.

A Christmas night several years after _they_ became _them_ provides suitable illustration.

That Christmas day had been like so many of their other days: Ridiculous. A lazy morning of nuzzling in bed had turned into a frenetic afternoon crawling through the London sewers after—

"—a rat. I swear that's what he looked like with those big flappy ears and white whiskers. What do you think of _The Adventure of the London Sewer Rat?"_

Sherlock almost a little bit sort of thought of actually answering this entirely rhetorical question when John stopped dead and there, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a quiet street, in the middle of their walk from the Old Bailey to 221B, John clutched Sherlock's hands to his chest and hooted, _"Sherlock Holmes Smells a Rat!"_

Grinning broadly John tucked one of Sherlock's cold hands beneath his armpit and, as they resumed walking, the good doctor resumed monologuing. This time about their evening spent as star witnesses at the trial of a—

"—ninety years old, if she was a day. And hacking the browser histories of everyone in Buckingham Palace since almost before there _were_ browsers? Sheer genius. Did you look at what Bad Dragon actually sells? As an Englishman I don't know whether to be proud of my queen or—"

John halted beside a herd of inflatable reindeer, his face bathed in the serene glow of Rudolph's flashing nose, he whispered in quiet jubilation, _"The Case of the Royal Pain!"_

John giggled gleeful, tucked Sherlock's _other_ cold hand under his armpit and started walking again. After a few moments he gently hip-check his husband, and murmured, "I know what you're doing over there, Mr. Holmes. You're brooding. Brooding and planning. Brooding and planning and plotting the petulant, exasperated thousand-word comments you're going to leave on my blog when I put these—"

Sherlock stopped dead, and right there, before a light-ringed tree, a full moon, and his one true love, Sherlock Holmes said softly, "No."

Sherlock tugged his bare hand out from under John's arm so that he could tuck John's gloved hands to his chest.

"Before you no one in my life ever……no one _wanted_ ……you're actually _happy_ with……John you let me…"

At the end of a busy Christmas day, in the middle of their fine city, at the beginning of their long, long marriage, Sherlock Holmes took a deep breathe. And then, before a pretty, snow-shrouded tree he held close his one true love and whispered softly, lyrically, "Love, John. You, John. Always."

_Merry Christmas and happy new year and be well and love much. (Just posted this at the airport gate on my return to a place I love much: London!)_


	5. First Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was covertly digging through John's few possessions when he found it...

Sherlock's not a superstitious man and he doesn't believe in luck, so for a long time there was nothing in his many collections of case-related ephemera that could be construed as talismanic.

Then, early in his relationship with John—oh, call it day one hundred and sixty-three give or take a half day—Sherlock found what would become his first talisman: John's baby handprint.

As he did semi-monthly, Sherlock was covertly digging through John's few possessions, searching for items he hadn't yet unearthed, and looking again at past delights.

Previous pleasures included John's black motorcycle boots, bought soon after the army, judging by a slightly-worn tread that, however, clearly showed evidence of a limp. In the first year of their relationship John will wear these boots when both bare and fully dressed, in bed and out. When their charms fade they'll be given to one of Sherlock's homeless network. She will go on to quite literally kick arse.

Another discovered delight was found wrapped inside an army dress tie. This was an elegantly simple silver tie pin consisting of the single word _Yes._ Though Sherlock tried deducing its meaning and provenance, he largely failed. When he finally admitted to finding the pin (quite nearly perishing during his three weeks of silence) Sherlock was very pleased with its meaning. This emphatic pleasure led to…emphatic pleasures.

Then, as mentioned, somewhere in the fourth month of their relationship, Sherlock found a true treasure: A torn piece of A4 tucked inside a half-used notebook. This plain piece of heavy paper had two things on it: A baby's handprint, and a faded pencil scrawl: _Johnny Watson, one month old._

Sherlock fell in love with that wee print instantly, if love is expressed by a sudden-pounding heart and the completely unconscious reflex to press paper to chest. He went on to spend an hour with that tiny, tiny print, touching, tasting, seeing. He held it up to the light, peering at wee whorls and ridges. He sniffed at the ink, tasted it too, bare traces lingering just near the edge of perception. Finally Sherlock ran long fingers over little ones. Here he let his imagination take hold because, as he touched, Sherlock felt a tiny fist wrap round his finger, that baby grip steady, strong, and so very sweet.

It was perhaps three weeks later when a plain-wrapped gift appeared on top of Sherlock's laptop. When opened, Sherlock found that tiny print in a simple frame. For a long time he said nothing, and the funny thing is, his heart started pounding.

Yes, Sherlock's first talisman—something kept for luck, protection, in reverence—was John's baby handprint.

It will not be his last.

_I know this isn't precisely the image of a child's hand, but let's imagine that it is. Also, I have long meant to write a short fic called "Yes Watson" and now this tie pin has given me the chance—it'll be a wee story in this Advent series. (P.S. John knows Sherlock pries, a fact that'll be addressed with that tie pin.) Thank you, as always, for reading!_


	6. Well-Suited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's the only one who noticed. After that he was completely screwed...

John's the only one who noticed.

Everyone else watching Sherlock striding around the crime scene saw what they expected to see: An arrogant man in a well-fitting suit—snug shirt, slim-fit trousers, perfectly tailored coat—being annoying and amazing.

John saw something else entirely.

He saw Sherlock's long fingers slide slow along the curve of his own hip. He noticed Sherlock repeatedly smoothing his shirt along his belly. And he saw Sherlock insinuate a finger between strained shirt buttons.

After that, John was completely screwed.

Everyone else watching saw what they expected to see: John Watson performing a medical exam of the corpse and translating Sherlock-speak—"It's so _obvious_ even a cave-dwelling isopod could see it, and they're _blind."_ "He means you should look under the bed." _—_ so that those gathered didn't throttle the man.

Sherlock saw something else entirely.

He saw John lift his chin repeatedly, as if his collar was tight. On his knees beside the victim, he shifted three times, tugged at the leg of his trousers, as if _they_ were too tight. And Sherlock saw John seeing him.

After that, Sherlock was completely screwed.

Because far more than wearing a set of pretty, old-fashioned lingerie beneath his clothes, John deducing him, John _seeing_ him, John _wanting_ what he saw, turned Sherlock on to such an extent that he couldn't—

"Murphft."

Lestrade stopped peering at the ruins of three orchids in shattered pots. He started to say, "What," but all he managed when he turned was the pursed lips movement. He looked as if he was blowing Sherlock a kiss.

The reason he never actually started or finished the word was because he could see, plain as day, that blowing was on the agenda, but it wasn't the kissing kind.

Here's the thing: Greg Lestrade used to wish Sherlock was more humane at crime scenes. You know, that he'd stop berating victims and browbeating detectives. Then he a little bit got what he wished for but it came with an unexpected side of something, and that was this: Eye sex, lip licking, and heavy breathing. Which is to say, Sherlock discovered sex and the man he was having it with was also his work partner.

While, unexpectedly, this had indeed made Sherlock politer—he now called people idiots behind their backs instead of right to their faces—it also lead to moments where Sherlock lost the ability to communicate.

Normal detective inspectors would at this point keep their eyes, mouths, and hands to themselves. Gregory Lestrade was not a normal DI. Thank god.

Which was why he did what he did, what he _always_ does when his fastest detective and his fastest detective's husband start leaking pheromones all over the place: He dug into his pocket and took out his car keys. The car he'd long since learned to park well away from crime scenes. The car he's had professionally cleaned (courtesy of John Watson) eight times in the last three years.

As Lestrade dug deep Sherlock popped a button on his tight grey shirt. Something delicate and pale peeped at the top of his collar. John dropped his chin and took a deep breath. Greg jingled his keys and looked west. Shortly the keys were plucked from his fingers and the next time he looked he and the potted orchids were alone.

Five minutes later Lestrade got a text:

_Thhouse painter acrss the street diid it. sHHhhhjkkkjk_

By the time the dynamic duo returned, they had the painter in custody and a confession.

And Greg had an extra fifty pounds in his pocket and a shyly-muttered apology from John.

_BelovedMuerto sent me this image long ago and I've always loved the idea of Sherlock in vintage-look lingerie. And modern lingerie. And no lingerie. And…sorry. Distracted. Speaking of distracted, I obviously won't reach my 30-stories-by-the-end-of-the-year goal but will continue boldly forward. Also, thanks for your patience with replies to comments! P.S. Lestrade has[used this ploy before](http://archiveofourown.org/works/441850/chapters/780863/)._


	7. Sir Galahad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He barely had to say hello before people were smiling at him, touching him, telling him their secrets...

If you want to seem like a saint, make friends with a sinner.

Except Greg Lestrade is no saint, and it was so two years ago to think Sherlock Holmes a sinner.

Still, just as there's something about Sherlock that rubs most people the wrong way, Greg knows there's something about him that, well, rubs them right.

He blames his looks. Well, his _past_ looks.

He's all-right now, but when he was young Greg Lestrade was what everyone called pretty. Both masculine and soft, he barely had to say hello before people were smiling at him, touching him, telling him their secrets.

They still do. Though he's gone and got more rugged-looking as he's aged, that youthful legacy has lingered. Maybe that's why he's a cop. Maybe that's why he's a good cop. And maybe that's why he's the only cop he knows who gets on with Sherlock. Because Greg understands, understands the presumptions, the snap judgments, outsiders thinking they're looking _in_ to who you are—but they're not. To borrow a quote from a great man, they see, but they do not observe.

Anyway, that's not the point. Or it is the point, but the reason he's even _thinking_ about the point is that today someone called him Galahad. Greg knows they meant well but, to quote another great man, the 'compliment' mother-fucking _irked_ him.

Because here's the thing Greg'll tell you for true: He's not gallant and he's not pure. He's not a saint or selfless so yes, it bothers him that people look at his weary face and the spiky mess of his hair after he rubs it too often, and instead of seeing a tired cop with indigestion, loneliness, and a powerful need to get laid, they think he's some sort of saint just because he cares about his job.

All right, he knows it sounds like he's complaining that his diamond shoes are too tight. Being thought kind and good is better than the harassment Sherlock put up with for so long, but maybe that's the problem. When people are cruel, you can justifiably whinge about it. When they're too kind, what do you do? Tell them that you're cranky because you put on weight this winter? That if you _did_ get naked with Mycr—with someone, you'd worry about love handles? Tell them that you're actually fifty damn years old and you're too nervous to pick up the phone and—

Oh fuck it.

Just…look. It's 2015 and he's not 15 any more. He's—

 _Damn_ it.

* * *

Greg picks up the phone. He dials a number he already knows by heart.

"Hello Gregory."

It takes Greg Lestrade three deep breathes before he can say anything. Anything at all. Then he says something.

He says a lot of things.

_I really do think Lestrade is the Galahad of 'Sherlock.' I also think that, with as few scenes as he's got, Rupert Graves gives him a depth beyond the dialogue. I adored his portrayal from the moment he bowed to Sherlock in the first episode. "Will you come? Thank you."_


	8. Hope Buzzes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock struggles against depression. His struggle is not so much in acknowledging he has it, it's in _letting it alone..._

Sherlock struggles against depression. His struggle is not so much in acknowledging he has it, it's in _letting it alone._ You see, for years Sherlock has tinkered with his medication, done things he knows triggers symptoms, neglected things he knows lessen them.

He'll tell you he's got a good reason for that: If he doesn't experiment, how will he know when the depression is gone?

Then two simple things happened somewhere in the fifth year of his marriage, and Sherlock Holmes-Watson, finally, at last, and almost forever, stopped his little acts of self-destruction.

After halving his medication again, after going two days without speaking even a dozen words, after scratching equations into his thighs with the tip of a pin because it made something somewhere hurt less, Sherlock rose one night to find John, elbows on knees, fingers weaved and pressed behind his head, rocking, rocking, rocking in his chair.

Standing unseen but seeing in the dark kitchen doorway, Sherlock finally realised how much his depression hurt John. On the heels of this revelation came a second: What if, like his eye colour, depression was a part of him? What if, without the medication, without self- _care_ , there was no going, no gone?

Oh yes, Sherlock could 'tinker' all he liked, he could trigger and neglect, he could tilt at windmills of his own making, but he couldn't keep doing it and ask John to suffer the aftermath of each self-waged war.

The irony was, Sherlock couldn't say any of that. Not just then.

Crawling back into bed, curling tight, staring at the night-shadowed wall, Sherlock rocked, and rocked, and rocked, and promised the dark that he would do better.

* * *

A week later John woke to the buzzing of bees.

The summer-drowsy hum filled the bedroom, opened his eyes, and there on his bedside table John Watson-Holmes saw his husband's mobile, from which the bee symphony softly played. Crowding close around the phone was a colony of little bee houses, store-bought things of wood and wicker, yellow-painted and filled with long, hollow tubes designed for the nesting of bees.

Sherlock shifted behind John, tugged bare back against bare front, and whispered close, "Mrs. Hudson said we can hang them in the back garden. They'll attract solitary bees, not honeybees, but solitary bees collect pollen too, and I hope to learn…"

For a time Sherlock buzzed on and on about his apiary plans. For a while longer he murmured overdue apologies. After that John whispered his thanks, then he gently tugged Sherlock on top of him and together they rocked, and rocked, and rocked.


	9. A Lick and a Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Sherlock is a focused man. Sherlock is an intent man. Sherlock, where John and pleasure and touch and smell and taste are concerned, is a slow-slower-slowest man...

Sherlock went down on John's arse purely by accident.

Well, that's what he _said,_ right after John fell off the bed.

What Sherlock was actually trying to do, there in the dark one night before Christmas, was introduce rimming to their sexual repertoire. Shame he did not at that time tell John of his plans.

Because, so surprised was the good doctor by the unexpected feel of _that_ squirming down _there,_ he jolted, twisted, and with a "Wha—!" fell off the bed.

The good doctor, who had never engaged in this pleasure, haltingly spoke of it the next morning over breakfast. "Uhhhnsanitary…not sure…sorry…maybe…couple years…please pass the jam."

Sherlock replied-lied by saying he hadn't even intended to do it, it was dark in the bedroom, he'd got lost, apricot or apple?

Two days later Sherlock left his laptop open.

This, of itself, does not sound particularly remarkable for, Sherlock _Not Even A Little Bit Subtle_ Holmes, often leaves his laptop open. How else can he tell John he wants an eight hundred quid Cole-Parmer SteriMax sterilizer? Or chocolates shaped like body parts?

Familiar with this, his husband's tendency, John Watson-Holmes, piping-hot tea in hand, paused in front of Sherlock's laptop to see what message he was being sent this time. Filling the laptop screen was a beautiful body.

John fast blinked twice. John sat down in front of Sherlock's laptop. John very carefully looked at the still image of a naked man.

He lay on a sofa, this black and white man, his legs and arms akimbo, sweet curves framing and drawing the eye to two things: plump testicles, and fine dark shadows between the man's arse cheeks.

About the time John's tongue squirmed out of his mouth, he realised it wasn't a still photo, it was a video.

John Watson pressed play.

And for six minutes John watched as one man went down on another man's arse.

The moans were soft, the movements slow, the pleasure seemed to go on for far longer than six minutes. At the end of that time John's tea was cold, he was hard, swearing softly at the ceiling, and ready.

Of course Sherlock wasn't home.

Which was actually fine, just fine, because it gave John time to watch eight more videos with these two men doing this same thing—only deeper, for longer, with a great deal of soft _sounds._

This then gave John time to experiment in the shower. How clean did he need _clean_ to be exactly? Scrubbing, touching…scrubbing…touching…oh…oooookay mmmm, _that_ amount of clean.

This in turn then gave John time to get his pristine self into a late afternoon bed and _imagine_ Sherlock giving, imagine Sherlock getting and… _oh, ooooh god yes._

By the time the good detective got back from the Yard John was naked on the sofa, clutching his own bottom, and for all intents and purposes leering. But suddenly there was a case on! Time was of the essence! And John Watson-Holmes did not get the attentions for which he was so very, very ready.

Three more cases, two more foiled attempts, and ten days later, he did.

It was worth the wait.

For Sherlock is a focused man. Sherlock is an intent man. Sherlock, where John and pleasure and touch and smell and taste are concerned, is a slow-slower-slowest man. So when Sherlock finally knelt between John's legs, when he finally touched him there with gentle fingers then slick tongue…oh Sherlock did _everything._

By the time he was done doing it John was a sweaty, moaning heap, lying on a wet spot. By the time Sherlock was done accepting John's open-legged invitation, Sherlock was a boneless heap beside him, wondering about licking John there now, while he was so wet, so—

By the time John had murmured-harumphed, "After you just?…with your?…unsanitary…ssssorry…" just before falling asleep, Sherlock had already fetched his laptop and found a very, _very_ good video.

 _I discussed their introduction to rimming in a previous set of Advent fics. First[came John](http://archiveofourown.org/works/590108/chapters/1074294#bow), then [came Sherlock](http://archiveofourown.org/works/590108/chapters/1094698#naked), but I felt it was remiss of me not to discuss what preceded those first times. I have, uh, rectified this error; thank you for your patience. And thank you for your patience with my comment replies! Holy mother of pearl you are being so kind with the leaving of comments, and they are oxygen._ Thank. You. _P.S. Sorry, but there never was the video I describe as going with this photo. That is just part of my made up hopes and dreams._


	10. The Snow Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'd have thought Mrs. Hudson said she was going to dance in Trafalgar square wearing a G-string and a bra of live slugs so alarmed did John look. Sherlock wisely kept his mouth shut.

She has memories, does Mrs. Hudson, for she has seen and done many things.

She's traveled quite a bit and liked Bangkok best, both for the palace and the tips she got dancing at the GI clubs.

She made a best friend at fifteen who is her best friend still, though if Turner thinks Hudson has forgotten their bridge bet she is very wrong.

She's bedded many men (and two women), and as far as 'deviations' go she was always quite fond of pegging.

So. Yes. Mrs. Hudson has many memories of many things, but some of her favourites are recent ones and one of her most treasured happened this week.

It was simple, as beloved things usually are, and it came with one of London's now-rare January snows.

The boys were just coming in as she was bustling out, and as soon as she saw them she knew what would happen.

"Hey hi, where are you off to? It's turning into quite a blizzard out there."

"High winds and a severe storm don't at all describe what's going on outside Joh—"

"Shut it, Sherlock. And why do you even know the definition of a bliz—never mind. If you need something at the shops Mrs. Hudson, I'll go."

"I was just saying that it's not really a bliz—"

John lifted his chin. Sherlock shut it.

Mrs. Hudson smiled. She loves them, with all her heart she does, but she is 77 with a dodgy hip, not senile and using a stick, so she could perfectly well go to the shops herself thank you. However, that was not where Mrs. Hudson was going.

"Thank you John, but I've done my shopping. I'm off to catch the bus and then take a nice stroll along the river. I love it there when it snows."

You'd have thought she'd said she was going to dance in Trafalgar square wearing a G-string and a bra of live slugs so alarmed did John look. Sherlock, belatedly and wisely, kept his mouth shut.

"Off out boys, be good."

Mrs. Hudson carefully stepped down 221B's single step and began to softly count. "One…two…"

"Mrs. Huds—"

"John."

Mrs. Hudson smiled to herself. She hadn't even made it to _three._

"Sherlock, be quiet. Mrs. Huds—"

"John."

"Sherlock, I mean it. Mrs. Huds—"

She best stop before the boys began truly bickering, though lord knew they did love a good squabble. "John Watson-Holmes, I'm afraid I've somewhere to be."

John carefully stepped down the single stoop of 221B and stood in the snow with his landlady. He didn't say anything to his landlady, he just looked at her. His eyes, however, said lots and lots. Things like…

_Each one of us has risked their life one for the other. The world is a risky, risky place and from some of those risks I can't guard you or him or anyone I love, but I can do this: I can hold your hand while you walk along a snowy riverside and I can protect you from the risk of falling, even if you don't precisely need that protection. I can and want to do this and even though you don't need it I need it. I'm sorry._

Mrs. Hudson has done and seen and known many things and for those many things she is grateful. But one of the finest things she'll remember for the many years she has left, is walking along the River Thames one snowy evening with John Watson's left hand in her right, and Sherlock Holmes' right hand in her left. She will remember holding tight when Sherlock slipped a little, and she'll remember laughing when John's teeth were chattering over hot coffees later.

However, for the life of her, she will never remember why they ordered and ate all those damned mince pies and Bakewell tarts, but if she never sees another until her _next_ lifetime that will be entirely too soon.

_The[definition of pegging](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pegging_\(sexual_practice\)). You're welcome._


	11. A Model Husband

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look, the entire problem is how the hell often does Sherlock have to pose as a model to get a case closed? Once is too many and this makes—oh triple mother fucking fuck with a nutmeg chaser _the man did not just do that._

Look here, you just _look here._

John's full of himself okay? Right on up to _here_ full of himself. He's smart and he knows it—finished med school with honours, discharged from the army with same. He's sexy and he knows that, too—you want to see a photo montage of who he's pulled, Mr. Curls and Cupid's Bow the final crowning proof?

But there's a point where enough is too much and right now that model pressing against Sherlock is too-the-fuck-much. And John can give you an itemised list as to why, but he's not going to do that because he's already annoyed enough, okay?

Besides, it's not like you can't _see_ perfectly well, yeah? You see that curvy bastard's magnificent arse, right? You see his fine-sleek muscles, and his spread legs, and those tattoos of—of—well John doesn't know what they're of but they make you look at every flash of the man's mile-long legs and—

Look, the entire _problem_ is how the hell often does Sherlock have to pose as a model to get a case closed? Once is too many and this makes at least three in the last year, though none of those involved this much male skin being plastered all over Sherlock's emphatically male skin and—oh triple mother fucking fuck with a nutmeg chaser _the man did not just do that._

Yes, yes he did just do that and _that_ is straddle Sherlock's lap and, and, and John doesn't even know what they're supposed to be _selling_ all right. Kilts? Belts? Balls? Because so help him John's just seen a mighty fine flash of some perfectly hung balls and—

At John's growl-bark-whine, two photographer's assistants moved away from him. John didn't notice.

Look, it's not as if John's ordinarily jealous, because he isn't. Sherlock is as likely to go humpy-bumpy with another man as he is to murmur mercury venus earth mars asteroid belt jupiter saturn uranus neptune and also-once-pluto into John's ear during a rousing fuck, all right?

But this last month? This last month they've been trying on a certain little sexual something they call 'pretend possession' and its chief features are growly faux-jealousy and a bit of physical domination.

The problem is—and one of the reasons this pleasant little perversion will soon be abandoned—is that John turns out to be so damn good at 'pretend possession,' that one not keenly trained to see the difference might think he is actually jealous—including John himself.

As well as this laughing model running his hands up into Sherlock's hair, this unfeasibly pretty man who just jumped a mile when John chest-bumped him and growled, "Sherlock Holmes- _Watson_ happens to be married mister, and I'm the _Watson_ to whom he's married."

The face Sherlock made when John did this was apparently _exactly_ the face the photographer wanted because she started yelling, "More! Give me more," and somehow Sherlock ended up with _John_ straddling his lap and John had such a raging hard-on by this time that Sherlock threw his perfectly-coiffed head back and moaned. And _that_ was the image that ended up in _W_ _Magazine,_ _Vogue,_ and _Yachts International,_ selling men's five thousand pound silver rings.

That photo, incidentally, ended up on a lot of walls in posh bedrooms, loos, and college dorms, while the photographer's second assistant ended up in jail for embezzlement.

As for the model, he happened to be married to the photographer, they have two kids, and he got paid whether or not he appeared in the advert. Plus his wife bought him a nice silver ring after.

_This is for Vixis, who wanted BAMFy John. John and Sherlock's game 'pretend possession?' It appears in "Mehndi," by the way. A bit._


	12. The One Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock looked up from his microscope, looked down at the ring in John's hand, and started breathing funny.
> 
> "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Here's a truth: If you're nosey, expect to be nosed.

Except John isn't nosey and he wasn't trying to be. He was trying to find a scrap of velvet Mrs. Hudson had given him for polishing his wedding ring. Of course Sherlock had appropriated it, to use for buffing chrome-plated beaker tongs or who-knows-whatsits.

A little digging in a few drawers and there it was, at the back of Sherlock's sock index. John snatched it up and…it wasn't a red velvet buffing cloth.

It was a small velvet bag and without thinking, John opened it, dumped its contents in his palm, looked close. And grinned.

On his palm rested a silver ring, inside of which a tiny saw blade curved. It was one of those novelty items meant for people keen on James Bond derring-do.

Before he'd even thought about where he'd found it—hidden—or where Sherlock might have got it—not from him—John was in the kitchen, leaning across the table and giggling, "Where'd this come from?"

John knew something was wrong exactly one second later: Sherlock looked up from his microscope, looked down at the ring, and started breathing funny.

John's imagination went right off the rails. Because every day John Watson writes up their adventures and he makes them _adventurous._ A man grown used to magnifying the drama of a thing? Well, he may soon find himself habituated toward assuming the dramatic.

So that funny breathing and the caged look on Sherlock's face flooded John with panicked thoughts: _Blackmail? Illness? Does this have something to do with fucking Mycroft?_ He thought a half dozen other things, even less sensible, and now he was breathing funny too, but Sherlock didn't notice, because Sherlock was trying to hide in plain sight, trying to vanish by will alone, he was, he was, oh dear god…he was ashamed?

John's knees went out from under him and he sat down heavy. His imagination stopped galloping and he reached across the table, whispered soft. "What?"

For long moments an old Sherlock surfaced, one that still pretended pushing people away worked, that saying he didn't feel something meant it was true.

Then that Sherlock went away and, staring at the hand John rested on the table, Sherlock mumbled, "A boy gave it to me."

John leaned closer. "What?"

Sherlock pressed at his cheek with a fist, as if he could push away the blush spreading there. "A boy. Gave me the ring."

John shook his head. He'd expected something…else.

Sherlock grunted, as if to propel the words. "He was eighteen years old."

Sherlock said nothing. John waited. Waited some more. Then he realised it must be his turn. "Oh. Were you two…?"

"No."

John waited again, but again Sherlock said nothing, so John did. "You saved the ring."

The blush crept lower, blotchy, as if it felt as shameful as Sherlock.

John started to flush, too, sorry that he'd made Sherlock feel this way. "I don't…it's…I didn't mean to find it. You don't have to tell…I'll put it back." John stood, stilled, blinked, as if he'd forgotten where the bedroom was. Then he turned away, and that's when Sherlock started talking.

"It was the year before I met you. He left a message on my blog. We had a coffee. He was eighteen years old and I was _thirty-three,_ John. He was smart and beautiful and…and I was grateful. I kept the ring because someone nice _liked_ me."

The last few words, mumbled to his own hands.

John bowed his head, at a loss. Then he got a bright idea. "Stay right there." Long moments later John dragged a chair next to Sherlock's, so close they were mashed hip-to-hip, and he opened his laptop. Poking through a couple layers of folders, he called up a black and white image, showed it to Sherlock.

         Messages - Sent

         If brother has green ladder  
         arrest brother.

         SH

Sherlock frowned.

"It's the text you sent from my phone, the day we met." John smiled at the grainy image—a screencap of his mobile that he'd taken with his computer's camera. "I remembered it a few weeks after I moved in. I don't think I was in love with you then but I was in _something_ with you, because I took a photo of the text Sherlock. It wasn't even to me. But you were so smart. And beautiful. And you liked me."

Hip-to-hip became lip-to-lip and John giggled, "And younger. You're younger than me. My boy toy."

Sherlock mumbled something, John mumbled something back, then no one said anything for awhile.

_Poor Sherlock, in any canon he never quite fits. And, mercifully, then comes John. And yes, I meant the title to make you think Hobbity things, just because. By the way[I can sign "The Day They Met."](http://wendycfries.com/post/108025462134/to-my-tremendous-surprise-a-fair-number-of-folks) Thank you!_


	13. What Happened After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock rose slow to knees and elbows, a pale beast trapped in the snare of his own happiness.

In a pale wash of late-afternoon light Sherlock woke to pain.

And smiled.

He shifted a little, there in the bedroom's dozy silence. Pain…no that wasn't it, that wasn't the right word.

Discomfort? Irritation? Ache?

No. No. _No._

Recalling this morning's just-dawn hours, Sherlock shifted again, then, cheeks flushing, he pressed his face into the duvet, smiling wider. He knew the word he wanted, oh yes. The word was _tender._

He wriggled sinuous again, tiny movements, little shifts, testing…

…arms.

The muscles there were used to work, familiar with hefting him high over roof ledges, onto fire escapes. But they were not so used to trembling, not used to wrapping around a man's bare back and holding him tight but gentle, strong and soothing both, a reassurance, a need, an encouragement.

Shifting, testing…

…thighs.

These are perhaps Sherlock's strongest muscles. Maybe that's the case in all big men, so used as they are to bearing the weight of that height. Sherlock's legs are stronger than most, familiar with bursts of speed, with running, darting, stopping fast. Yet they're tender now because they're not yet used to wrapping tight-high around John's waist, they're not used to spreading so _wide._

Sherlock paused a moment to feel the flush spread from cheeks to chest, and he smiled again.

Shifting, testing…

…belly.

Sherlock doesn't know what his 'core' muscles are, any more than he knows there's no king of England. If he _did,_ he'd know that there, his belly, well those muscles are perhaps his most-used, tied up as they are with everything else, with reaching for fire escapes, making quick turns down alleys. Yet his sweet belly—a lovely flat thing now, it will be a beautiful bit of succulent roundness in his old age—was right now perhaps the most tender part of him, so unused to being filled with _butterflies,_ with heavy-winged things both strong and busy.

It hadn't been fear causing those butterflies this morning, no, not at all. He'd been eager, keen, _wanting_ so much that he'd been giddy-nervous with it. "Now John, yes John, please John," it had been a chant, an encouragement as, for the first time in their months-long romance he'd opened his legs and his body to John.

The penetration had been just what everyone says and what no one says: Strange-good, wrong-right, uncomfortable-fine, and then slow-slow-slow they'd started to move, and for a long time they'd rocked together, until nothing was strange or wrong, just good right fine, moremore _more._

And it was delicious. That's the word for when moremore _more_ is expressed in slowslow _slow,_ yes? It's the word for when slow leaves you with sweet aches everywhere, arms, legs, belly and _there,_ right there where…

…Sherlock heard John's tip-toe return from using the loo upstairs. Knowing he was being watched in the half-light, Sherlock rose slow to knees and elbows, a pale beast trapped in the snare of his own happiness. He twisted shoulders, arched back, presented his arse, and even as he did, he felt himself flush with desire, a sweet, unfamiliar need to _please._ He wanted to be worth watching, worth wanting.

And where Sherlock was quite literally intoxicated with an unfamiliar stew of contentment and hormones, John was straight up sober as a judge. With wide open eyes he stood in that bedroom doorway and saw not only aching beauty, but in the stillness of a hung-low head, in shallow breathing, he saw doubt and desire both. _I want you to want me John…but I still can't believe that you do._

John knows that he'll spend a lifetime finding small words and grand gestures to convey his love for Sherlock, but if there is a better way to spend a lifetime John Watson does not know what it is.

Except being loved by Sherlock Holmes in return, in the very smallest and very grandest of ways.

_I've written about their first penetrative sex once before, in[Virginity](http://archiveofourown.org/works/528912/chapters/945365), a story inspired by [Kuuttamo's beautiful artwork](http://kuuttamo.tumblr.com/image/20606000416). This image inspired something else: A need to know what happened after. I think what happened after is joy. Sherlock's utter joy at the achy evidence of being wanted._


	14. Extended Adolescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As soon as the doctor met a detective the shackles of propriety were thrown merrily to the four winds...

John Watson always paid his bills on time. In the name of a healthy prostate he let doctors poke latexed fingers up his arse. To counteract endless work weeks when dinner was takeaway curry, he gulped multi-vitamins.

John was a responsible adult.

Then the doctor met a detective and with very little fanfare the shackles of propriety were thrown merrily to the four winds.

"We can't giggle at a crime scene."

That's where it started, the two of them doing what they shouldn't while a not-nice man lay dead, John's bullet through his heart.

They continued doing that thing most grown men don't do, giggling after scaling muddy embankments, unearthing rare documents, stumbling giddy into 221B after too many hours awake. They giggled and giggled, two men in their thirties, in love with their extended adolescence, in love with each other.

They didn't grow up for quite awhile.

For example, there was that time they talked their way into a posh block of flats in search of a larcenous banker, then nearly derailed everything in a packed lift, giggling like helium-addled canaries when the doors closed and an electronic voice purred _going down._

Then there was that summer day John pointed out a penis-shaped strawberry in Mrs. Hudson's basket of fruit, Sherlock correctly deduced their landlady's latest beau had a side business growing anatomically-correct produce, and this juvenile fact sent both men into such laughing fits Mrs. Hudson actually went at them with the snap of a wet tea towel.

Then there were all those times Lestrade caught sight of "those two fools" running past his traffic-stalled police cruiser, dashing to _his_ crime scenes. And nine times out of ten? Well they arrived before he did, flush-cheeked and giddy, Sherlock already half-through solving the case.

So yes, it's perhaps understandable why more than once the people close to the Baker Street boys kind of wished those boys would remember already that they were _men._

Then somewhere in the sixth year of John and Sherlock's marriage, those people got their wish.

In retrospect the catacombs case was barely even a four, yet a mystery that called for roaming the dark tunnels of subterranean London, their vast and beautiful city humming high over head? Oh that was a siren song, pirate's treasure, it was straight out of a children's adventure book.

Then a literal wrong turn took Sherlock down, down, down where John couldn't follow, and in the aftermath one of them grew silent, the other solemn, and everyone they knew wished for the childish men again, for the giddy fools, for the grown-ups who giggled.

It took awhile, but once more those people got their wish.

It started a few months after, when Sherlock kept over-long curls out of evidence-seeking eyes by tying his scarf round his head like a kerchief. John had begun trilling _babooshka babooshaka_ and having such keening hysterics he aspirated his own spit. Then the good doctor did something filthy with a stripper's pasties while they sorted through evidence at a burlesque club, and the good detective shoved his hand so far down John's pants that Lestrade had to avert his gaze in woebegone long-suffering.

After that everyone forgot they'd wished these two to be something other than they were, but the men themselves, well they made certain to never again forget most of their adolescent ways.

Though they _do_ now pay their bills on time, they take multi-vitamins when they remember, and they do spend quite a bit of time, uh, getting fingers poked up their arses.

_I'd apologise for the story's end (a pun!) but I wouldn't mean it. I do mean to tell you that[this happened today](http://wendycfries.com/post/109237921509/the-day-they-met-my-first-book-my-book-about)! Also, by the way, the catacombs case is part of "No Man's Land," a fic I'm not remotely near finishing or publishing. It'll be super-angst with a happy ending. Always and forever happy endings in my stories. Always. P.S. Happy almost-birthday Chocola! _


	15. Yes Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you're a good lay, to put it plainly, there is going to be appreciation. For many years, John Watson was _appreciated._

When he was twenty John got a very particular nickname. It followed him to med school, then through the army.

Women called him Yes.

This is because, for more than a decade, if you sidled up close to John Watson and asked him if he would, he said yes. And yes. And yes.

Once word went around about the short guy with the swagger and a devotion to _slow_ and _again_ and _oh-god-there_ —and this kind of word always gets around—a lot of women asked. And usually John said yes.

Though there was a great deal of pleasure to be had in his years as sweetheart to the regiment (so to speak) what lay at the heart of John's compulsion wasn't simply getting a leg over, it was kindness. Because there's something in the soul of a man who becomes a doctor in a war zone, a driving need to help, heal, to make better. For most of us that need is small, for a rare few it's a fire. And for those people? _All you have to do is ask._

Freer than any medicine, faster than any tablet, John learned that sex soothed aches both great and small, and so for years he said yes.

And so for years he was thanked. Because if you're a good lay, to put it plainly, there _is_ going to be appreciation. Some women expressed theirs with kisses or phone calls. Others with blow jobs or fancy dinners. There were invitations to parties, weddings and, once, to be a woman's final fuck before she surgically transitioned to life as a man.

Other thank yous came in the form of keepsakes. When John was nineteen, Antigua Anastasia Santa Delos Zamora—his sweetheart for the three weeks she was on holiday—gave him a heart-shaped rock she'd found during their weekend in Brighton.

Lanna gave him an orchid, Pari gave him scarves, and Katie fetched up with a coffee mug that said F**k. Orla presented him with flavoured condoms, Natalie a framed map of London, while Skylar and Jean both gave him books, one on medicine, the other Pashto.

Despite John's tendency to keep such keepsakes, time and too many moves took away most of them. In the end John ended up with just one, given to him by a fellow soldier.

Lieutenant Enola Harper knew just what to do with a man like John, for Enola was a woman of the same nature. Sex was for joy, as far as the good lieutenant was concerned, and she gravitated to men who knew the truth of this. As such, she and John were an item during most of her first deployment in Afghanistan, though neither was exclusive. Enola made sure of this the day before she shipped out, giving John a kiss, permission, and a tie pin that said _Yes._

Though distance cooled their fire eventually, John never forgot Enola. Or Antigua, Pari, Natalie, or any of the other women. Because even though the good doctor's got something of a three-continents reputation, he also has the tendency to remember every last woman or man he's helped or healed.

Then one day, when John Watson least expected it, every one of those faces began to fade, eclipsed by the sun-bright blaze of a man named Sherlock.

Right from the start John basked in Sherlock's light, because his was a _needy_ blaze. This beautiful, stupid genius had to be admired and coddled, had to be held and helped and, perhaps most of all, healed.

It's no wonder every memory of who went before dimmed and John forgot a few names, he forgot a few places, and he even forgot a tie pin that said _Yes,_ until one day John's beautiful, stupid sun was on hands and knees, his succulent moon facing a bedroom door, as Sherlock pawed under John's old bed.

The moment Sherlock heard his husband behind him he stood up with dignity, collected his abandoned towel, and, chin high, mumbled something about _my bath should be ready now._

He got exactly as far as the bedroom door and John Watson, who said simply, "What this time?"

Sherlock will always think about lying in situations like this. He won't, but he'll pause for a noticeable half second and _think_ about it. After that moment he'll admit he's again been going through his husband's things. Then he'll open his hand, pocket, or mouth and extract the hastily hidden item.

This time it was in his hand: A small tie pin that said _Yes._ Unlike [the first time Sherlock unearthed this pin](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2826707/chapters/6534791), years ago and attached to one of John's old army ties, this time it was stuck through a dusty card, inside of which Enola had long ago chicken-scratched a few words.

"I found the card last month, tucked in one of my books, so I reunited it with the pin. Should have known you'd deduce the misplaced dust."

All their lives together Sherlock will 'secretly' go through John's things. Knowing this, John will occasionally move an old item or hide a new one, for no other reason than to give Sherlock something to do. Sherlock will never twig to this diversion, not through all the decades they are married.

What Sherlock _did_ do just now was look down at his naked toes. He clutched the simple, silver tie pin and watched those toes wiggle. He knew the why of the pin. He liked the why of the pin. He knew it probably wasn't normal, but somehow the why made him proud of John. It also made Sherlock horny. That probably wasn't normal, either.

"John," said Sherlock, clearing his throat, toes wiggling faster. "I was wondering…"

John stepped close, shushed Sherlock with the stroke of a thumb over his mouth. Then John stood on tiptoe and whispered into Sherlock's ear.

_"Yes."_

_I knew a "yes" man years ago, truly one of the nicest people I ever met. The media won't tell you that men also say yes to sex simply to love and be loved, but they do. I think John Watson would be one and then, after Sherlock, he'd still say yes and yes and yes—but to only one. P.S. Behind in comments again. I'll catch up![Also, P.P.S.](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/109491200444/never-mind)_


	16. A Taxing Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment Sherlock's lush rump made landfall on couch cushions his lips parted and it was then that the extent of the grave injustices done him flew forth like the furies escaping Pandora's box...

"It's that obvious, Mr. Genius?" 

Belligerently sat at the kitchen table, claiming he could barely see over the papers teetering in front of him, John waved his hands as if suddenly beset by bees. "Never mind I don't care. Just don't start with me Sherlock, don't look at me, don't talk to me, just let me be foul all alone all right? Could you do that? Would you?"

Standing under a dimming kitchen bulb that lent him the aura of a martyred angel, Sherlock blinked down at John. He had barely said four words. To be frank Sherlock had stopped reaching for the kettle so he could count exactly how many words he'd barely said.

_You. Look. Annoyed. John._

Yes, just four. As such it hardly seemed reasonable for John to be quite so abominable to him. As a matter of fact—

"Go away you big hovering annoyance! Think about how wronged you are somewhere else! If I don't finish these accounts tonight I'll burn the lot of them and then they'll come repossess your microscopes and that absurdly expensive Petri dish—you can not tell me anyone currently living needs a forty quid Petri dish, I don't care if it's rimless or good at rimming or whatever makes it so special because _I really need you to go away already."_

As smart as he is, as computer-quick as that fine brain can be, it took Sherlock three long seconds to separate John's harangue from his command and when he did Sherlock stood very tall—every inch of that lanky frame shouting _wronged! I am wronged!—_ and without a word Mr. Holmes vacated the kitchen and went to mope on the sofa.

 _Without a word_ means that for the entire five seconds it took Sherlock to progress from kitchen to sitting room he was absolutely dead silent, not so much as a whispered word or the susurration of a footfall.

And _mope_ means that the moment Sherlock's lush rump made landfall on couch cushions his lips parted and it was then that the extent of the grave injustices done him flew forth like the furies escaping Pandora's box.

"First, John, I'm certainly sorry we've made so much money this year that you're beset with taxation grievances. I assure you I can be persuaded to work for free again, if that's more amenable to you."

Sherlock didn't need to see John to know that he was listening. Their flat is not over-large and John rarely so indifferent that he'll simply sneak off from one of Sherlock's rants. So, confident that he had his sweetheart's full attention, Sherlock continued whinging.

"Second, while assuredly I appreciate your accounting efforts on our mutual behalf, I do seem to recollect encouraging you to commission the services of an _actual_ accountant." 

Sherlock attempted to tug his dressing gown tight over pyjamas, but he'd left it on the kitchen chair and there was no way to claim it without completely ruining point three.

"And third, if those little chocolate breakfast cakes you hate so much were really doing my health any harm—as you keep maintaining every time you _hide_ them—I am certain I would know."

That Sherlock was now touching on perceived injustices which had nothing to do with anything didn't give the man even a teeny bit of pause. Because Sherlock's a big believer in getting things off his chest, and if he can do that in list form, with big words, in front of a captive audience, so much the better. 

Having elucidated the issues as he saw them, Sherlock again attempted to tug his non-existent dressing gown closed, looked out 221B's windows, and settled in to wait for his apology.

Which came in the form of burning.

Sherlock knows many things, a lot more than people think, about things like account balances and proper usage of toasters. Where he differs from many is that he chooses to ignore these things.

However, Sherlock was reasonably certain he couldn't ignore the smell of burning receipts and bank statements. Because it smelled as if John had put these very things in the toaster and then _put the toaster on._

Sherlock may not care about bank statements, but he cares about that toaster. That toaster has wide toast slots. As such it comes in remarkably handy when, placed on its side, he puts Petri dishes into it to catalyse some reaction or other with very localised heat.

However, as much as Sherlock loves that perfect toaster, as much as he does not want to see it ruined with receipts, Sherlock cares quite a bit more about an unshaved, cranky John Watson.

As such Sherlock did two things.

First, he called a bookie/accountant he knew who owed him three, possibly three and a half favours. He spoke to her sotto voce for twenty seconds. He hung up. Roughly ten seconds later John's mobile rang. After the sound of something being thrown against the fridge and two swears, John answered his phone. Sherlock stilled during the ensuing silence.

By the time John said, "Are you _really?_ He didn't just get you to call up and say—oh. Boris _and_ Beckham? Well…" Sherlock did the second thing: He rose and decamped to their bedroom.

By the time the good detective returned, stretching his far differently dressed self out on the sofa, John was saying, "No, I wasn't actually, uh, toasting the important ones, just the Starbucks receipts that we…those too? I didn't know that. Yes, I'll have everything in the box. Thank you, Zee, we'll see you tonight."

Again Sherlock stilled in the ensuing silence. Then he deduced four things. John was spinning his mobile on the kitchen tabletop, deep in thought. John was then shoving receipts and statements back into a shoe box, a little bit grunting with the effort. John was soon after picking up flung flatware from the base of the fridge. And finally John was about to apologise.

Sherlock stretched more lavishly along the sofa. He delicately angled his nearly-bare rump. He closed his eyes, counted ramping heartbeats, and prepared to accept John's apology by preparing to accept—

_oh god_

—John's tongue.

Sherlock grunted. John clutched sheer-stockinged thighs, shoved his face deeper between the cheeks of a minty-fresh arse, and grunted in reply.

A half hour later Sherlock had messily debauched the couch and Zee Lachaise was neatly consuming her second Starbucks latte, waiting for Sherlock's text. Somewhere after seven in the evening she got it.

_Come up when convenient._

Victoria Beckham and Boris Johnson's accountant then did three things: She finished her coffee. She gathered her possessions. She checked her watch.

Her mobile dinged with another text.

_Wwait. Notyet_

By the time Zee got a second _come now_ text, 221B smelled like a harem, she'd missed the final match at Lord's Cricket Ground, and a sheer black stocking was draped over a lamp and gently burning on an overheating bulb.

After the briefest of introductions the bookie/accountant sat down at a slightly-wobbly kitchen table and in front of an over-stuffed shoe box. Somewhere in the flat she heard a giggle, a grunt, and the word _wider._

This was going to cost Sherlock at least two of the favours she owed him. Maybe two and a half.

_I will never get tired of two things: Having these men bicker and having a reason to put Sherlock in lingerie. P.S.[A thing to perhaps remember](http://wendycfries.com/post/112081333929/the-day-they-met-is-wendys-first-book-as-such)... Ahem._


	17. Spells and Incantations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason why John and Sherlock's mobiles have A&E on speed dial, why staff call them by their Christian names...

Heroics don't come cheap.

Running down shadow-dark mews, flying across rooftops, tackling suspects to the pavement—or, last week, nearly off the edge of a chalk cliff in Dover—there's a reason why John and Sherlock's mobiles have A&E on speed dial, why staff call them by their Christian names.

The cost of those heroics is why John Watson knows who to flirt with to get blood work back fast, and what to do to get a second set of X-rays now if he doesn't like the look of the first. 

It's why Sherlock knows how to slow his heart rate a little, how to ramp the technician's a lot, and how to obfuscate, fib, or outright lie to get access to equipment he shouldn't, who to deduce to look at records not his, and when to do one, or the other, or both.

Sherlock knows that John doesn't need him there when the doctor's getting stitches removed or another X-ray of the bone that quite nearly broke—but he's there each time just the same.

And John knows that when Sherlock's laid low with a cut or near-concussion the hours pass treacle-slow though not nearly so sweet. 

Each man knows that the worry, the swearing, the threats, the pacing corridors and the frustrated questions, don't make a single damn thing better, but each does these things all the same.

And what John knows each time his lover is hurt, what Sherlock understands each time his sweetheart needs healing, is that everything'll be all right, it'll be all right, _it will be all right._

Because what they both know most of all is that there is no other way. The pacing and the flirting and the swearing and the worry…they're spells combined with incantations wrapped up in prayers, and if they keep doing them, every time they roam those clean white corridors, it'll be all right.

It will _always_ be all right.

It has to be.

And so it is.

_I've got essays looming along with work and college, but I really want to finish this Advent calendar so I can continue working on the next chapter of Keeping It Loki, which I promise will be finished soonish. So, the point is...maybe shorter entries coming soon, but more quickly!_


	18. Mirror, Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because clenching? Clenching? If the thing you are clenching is plump flesh, flesh perhaps slightly less than tight, well clenching underscored the loosening. And created dimples. Not the winsome sort of dimpling Sherlock sometimes gets in his, uh, face cheeks, but an altogether bit-not-good sort of dimpling.

Sherlock is a poser. Has been for years.

Spine straight, shoulders back, he's a criminal-obstructing wall. Tear-glistened eyes, tremouring chin, and he's a witness's tender friend. Brows drawn, eyes flicking fast, and he's a clue-gathering machine. Open mouthed, tongue to lip, and he's a hungry lover.

It's that last that's never a pose, though pose for John Sherlock does, has right from the start. Again and again he will bow a suit-clad back, touch his neck, look through lashes…all so that John will see him want him touch him.

Those poses, like all of Sherlock's poses, _work._

So Sherlock Holmes-Watson, fifty-three-years old in two months, still poses. He poses for witnesses and judges, for criminals and in pursuit of clues and, always, always he poses for John.

But here's the thing about that: poses must be practiced. A head tilted just so can say _come hither_ or, with the barest twist, it can say instead _you lie._

So, given an opportunity, Sherlock poses. He poses to perfect, to tweak, to try something new. And so now, standing damp and naked in a Glasgow hotel shower post-case, Sherlock was presented with the ideal opportunity for practice. Though their lodging was not ancient enough for charm or new enough for class, it did have one notable feature: A mirrored wall across from the tub.

So, while John crashed, Sherlock patted himself dry. And posed.

Toweling his arms, he took a deep breath, observed that this still did a fine job of accentuating the width of his shoulders. Good. Broad shoulders helped impress the impressionable, intimidate those who equated size with authority.

Sherlock rubbed his hair briskly, smoothed it carelessly, turned in three quarter profile. Yes, John was right. If he lifted his chin and frowned just so, the lashings of grey hair did indeed give him an aura of austerity.

Drying his belly, Sherlock dropped his chin, looked left. Though he'd gained a few kilos in the last five years, his cheekbones were sharp as ever. Combined with his height, these still lent him a definite judge-and-jury air.

Grinning, pose practice complete, Sherlock dried strong thighs, a still-dark pubic thatch, then bent to dry his feet. And here is where he'd have been fine, just fine, super duper extra-special fine, if he hadn't gone and glanced in the mirror as he bent, then as he stood.

_Holy mother of god._

Glaring over his shoulder, Sherlock squinted at the mirror.

_What…_

Towel slipping from suddenly-numb hands, he clutched at his ripe back end.

_…the fuck…_

He's not much of a swearer, Mr. Holmes-Watson, but as he stared and clutched, clutched and stared at the glory that used to be his arse, all he could think was…

"What the absolute fuck _happened_ here?"

Sherlock released his arse. And there, oh dear god, there it was. What had happened:

Sag.

Droop.

Drop.

Oh yes, sure, it was possibly possible, just maybe probable, that this terrible travesty was unnoticeable to the unobservant but ha ha ha here's a fact you might not know: Sherlock Holmes is _observant._ So _he_ noticed, he emphatically noticed that what used to be, according to John, "divine globes of divinity and succulent suckability," well they were now—

Sherlock tilted his head.

—eggs.

Bit smaller at the top, more, more—oh dear god—more _pendulous_ at the bottom.

Sherlock gently keened.

Geniuses have to age, Sherlock knows this in some vague and abstract way, but he also knows there's no requirement that they go softly into that good night of droop and drop, and so…Sherlock lifted his chin. He took a shoulder-broadening breath. And so he would not. No. Sherlock Holmes-Watson would _fight._

And he would do this by posing. Because he was a genius. And any decent genius could figure out a pose that would prevent John from noticing that his 'divine globes of divinity' were slowly morphing into…deviled eggs.

Sherlock stood tall. Yes. Sherlock can pose. Sherlock _knows_ how to pose.

So right. In an effort to give the illusion of his old 30-something firmness, Sherlock would simply _firm._ That should be easy enough. All he had to do was…

…Sherlock stood tall, clenched his arse. Hard.

He clapped a hand over the squeal just a little tiny bit too late.

_Holy fuck holy fuck do not clench do not clench._

Because clenching? _Clenching?_ If the thing you are clenching is plump flesh, flesh perhaps slightly less than tight, well clenching underscored the _loosening._ And created dimples. Not the winsome sort of dimpling Sherlock sometimes gets in his, uh, face cheeks, but an altogether bit-not-good sort of dimpling.

_Right. Deep breath Holmes. Another. One more. Fine. Okay. Let go. Slowly. Just…_

Sherlock unclenched. The, uh, the opposite-of-winsome dimples went away.

Sherlock wiped sweat from his forehead.

He had to do something to fix this. He had to, to, lift what was falling. Or make sure John never saw the travesty of—ah. Ah! The answer was obvious.

When they got home Sherlock would accidentally break all the mirrors in 221B. That would completely prevent John from—wait.

Damn it. _Damn it._ That would prevent _him_ from seeing his aging, drooping, un-tight, dimpling arse cheeks, it would not stop _John_ from seeing them. As a matter of fact—wait!

Sherlock stopped hyperventilating. He knew what he would do. It was perfect. Flawless.

He would change all the light bulbs in the flat. _All of them._ He'd reduce the brightness little by little until everything was kind of grey. When John said something about it Sherlock would feign deafness. That always worked. Eventually John would start to think his eyesight was going, and the shadowy light? It would completely prevent him from seeing that Sherlock's butt cheeks were now at least a half foot closer to his knees.

Actually, why stop there? Sherlock could break all the mirrors and dim all the lights and forbid John from eating carrots and…and if he was lucky, by the time his arse cheeks were down to his ankles they'd both be blind. Yes! Sherlock was pretty sure he would entirely be okay with going blind if it happened slowly and they were wandering around together in the dark and then John would still think he was beautiful instead of sagging all over the place.

Hopefully they'd be one hundred and three then. That would be a fine age to lose their faculties. Well not bowel control, that wouldn't be good and if they were both blind no one could effectively clean—

_Never mind._

All of that wasn't for another fifty years. In the meantime Sherlock was sure he could put the light bulb plan into effect. And he could start to come to bed with pants on; maybe tell John it was for a years-long experiment. And maybe he'd do butt exercises. If he clenched _a lot_ maybe he'd make the muscles underneath bigger. Then they'd fill out the sagging bits, the—Sherlock clenched hard—oh god those _dimpling_ bits, the—

"Look at you," John murmured.

Sherlock froze. Spine straight, brows drawn, arse cheeks clenched so hard he'd lost circulation in his legs, Sherlock stood stock still as a naked John scuffed into the loo, rubbing sleepy at one eye and reaching…reaching…

John gently cupped one full arse cheek. "I love when you see what I see."

Sherlock has had the verbal lack-of-control of a two-year-old since he was one, so even though he didn't want the answer he asked anyway. "What do you see?"

John turned to the mirror, his gaze following Sherlock's. "The prettiest fresh-washed bottom in all creation." John tilted his head, softly pinched one damp cheek, whispered, "Bring that prettiness to bed and sit on my face and I'll, uh, tell you that I love you."

John Watson-Holmes, with a patchy three-day beard, bags under the bags under his eyes, unwashed hair, and yellowing-bruises from a failed fight with an unmoving rubbish skip, giggled and waggled his tongue at his one true love.

And Sherlock Holmes-Watson stopped clenching. He cupped the face of the most beautiful man in England. And Sherlock whispered back, "Yes. And John? Maybe we should get a bigger mirror in the loo at home."

 _You know, I think Sherlock's kind of the opposite of vain. In his mind he's just a mind so if, by some great good luck, he's also got something_ pretty _to offer John? Well then, dear god keep it_ tight. _Also, in case you didn't[get the reference](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dax_tnZRExc). (Thanks Sunhawk!)_


	19. Vertigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock shudder-sighed and took up their old pastime instantly, the almost-rare game they sometimes use to while away slow-slower-slowest moments, telling tales of the children they did not have.

"M-make it stop."

Stiff after two hours on an A&E waiting room chair, John leaned over slowly, cradled the dark-haired head in his lap. "Shhh sweetie, it's okay. She's as unhappy as you are."

Stretched out along a brace of plastic chairs, Sherlock nestled his face deeper into John's jumpered belly, keened softly.

Curling closer, as if he could block out a baby's crying with his body, John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's ear, chitter-chattered diversions, "Did you know that what you're feeling is right down deep in your genes?"

John glanced across the waiting room at the weeping infant. Dark-skinned, black-eyed, fat as a cherub, she was lovely as a painting, but her most striking feature was her vociferous voice. Full of discontent and misery, the infant wailed, the sound siren-shrill.

Lips tickling soft against Sherlock's fevered ear John whispered, "That sound, of a baby crying…even people who aren't parents are hard-wired to respond."

Eyes clamped tight-closed, Sherlock whined his lack of understanding.

"As rare as you are Mr. Holmes-Watson, you're still made of human DNA, just like the rest of us, and right on down to your double helix this response goes—the agitation of a baby crying, the absolute empathetic need to _stop_ her pain."

John stroked the curls of the big baby in his lap. Except no, Sherlock wasn't a baby, he was a big man laid low with sudden vertigo, and he was as miserable as the colicky child across the hospital waiting room.

John kissed Sherlock's hair, hummed something tuneless. A Monday after a holiday weekend was a bad time in A&E, but when Sherlock lost his balance walking across the sitting room this morning—then did it twice more within five minutes—John called a cab and they were at University College Hospital within minutes.

There are a dozen worrisome causes of vertigo and a few that aren't and, frankly, John had only kept his shit together these last two hours because he had Mission Distract Sherlock. So, for the hours he suspected they had yet to wait, John did, with tuneless humming and babbling small talk.

"Speaking of babies, Vexation loved them when she was little, remember?"

Sherlock stopped his soft moaning. Grunted his query.

"Babies, Miss Vexation London Holmes-Watson, loved babies when she was…oh was it about four?"

Sherlock shudder-sighed and burrowed briefly harder against a woolen belly, took up their old pastime instantly, the almost-rare game they sometimes use to while away slow-slower-slowest moments, telling tales of the children they did not have. "Mmmm yes," agreed Sherlock, "but only a very particular kind of baby. When she was little Vex loved baby polar bears."

Though he kept his eyes closed tight, Sherlock's brow unfurrowed, to make room for his story.

"She used to believe little polar bears would come meet little children in the middle of the night. They would climb up fire escapes or take creaky old lifts. Then they'd all go off in the dark and have pirate adventures."

Mouth pressed to curls John nodded, as if in memory. "Then," he whispered, "before dawn the baby bears would go home and tell the parent bears what they did. And Vexation would tell all of us at the breakfast table."

"We used to have to tell Umbrage not to make fun," Sherlock whispered back.

"She was jealous of such magnificent dreams," agreed John.

"She gets that from you," said Sherlock.

"I'm not jeal—"

"The _dreams,"_ Sherlock scolded, poking his untiny nose into John's belly, "she gets her adventure dreams from _you."_

Delighted that Plan Divert Sherlock was go, John lipped at the warm whorl of a delicate ear. "What else?"

Sherlock turned his head a very little bit, cautiously opened one eye against the pitch and tilt of the vertigo. He looked at John, long fingers stroking soft under a warm jumper, while John gazed back at him, short fingers stroking fever-damp skin.

There is a quiet miracle in caring and being cared for. Because they were not young when this love came, because each had wished for this and never known it, both men were mindful of their miracle.

Sherlock closed his eyes again, wrapped an arm around John's waist and whispered, "Do you remember that time, in kindergarten, when Discontent stole a priceless treasure worth eighteen million pounds?"

... _this chapter continued in "Little Thief" next..._

_One day, in a fit of pique,[John and Sherlock accidentally invented a trio of little girls](http://archiveofourown.org/works/703598): Vexation, Umbrage, and Discontent, the children they'll never have. Now, occasionally [they tell one another stories](http://archiveofourown.org/works/704251/chapters/1298990) of Vex, Um, and Dis, oh such stories. _


	20. Little Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock, how is the poor girl ever going to learn right from wrong _ever_ when her daddy sounds so ecstatic about the latest 'brilliant embezzler' who hid his cache of rare opals in some egg mayonnaise?" [Chapters 19 and 20 are connected, you'll want to read 19 before this one.]

Rogue.

Scoundrel.

Thief.

These are not words in the lexicon of most five-year-olds. Most five-year-olds are not Discontent Baker Holmes-Watson.

To be fair to Dis—by the way, today it's Dis, in a few days it will again be Disco; if anyone thought to track Discontent's shifting whim on this matter of her nickname, they would soon learn it predicts Nikkei Index fluctuations to plus or minus 2 percentage points—as we were saying, to be fair to Dis, she can't be blamed for not knowing the difference between _wanting_ a thing and _stealing_ a thing for she has grown up in a household where words such as embezzler, miscreant, and fraudulent are part of dinnertime conversation.

* * *

"Wait, wait, wait."

Head pillowed in John's lap, Sherlock cracked open one eye, looked up with a grunt of impatience.

"You know what the Nikkei Index is?"

Sherlock let a mighty scowl close his eye for him.

"No, no, you see I once said something about Wall Street, the world-famous _Wall_ Street and you asked if I'd meant to say London Wall and the only reason you even know about _that_ Wall is because we had that case where—"

"John."

"Fine. _Fine._ The name of the Japanese stock index is one of the super special things you've kept in the mind palace, unlike, for example, how much I dislike banoffee anything vis-à-vis the ice cream you keep on buying for 'us.'" John cleared his throat, murmured another couple _fines,_ then finished with a magnanimous, "Go on."

John waited five seconds for the _on_ to go, then realised the obvious. "Blah blah wanting a thing and stealing a thing."

Sherlock went on.

* * *

So, as we were saying…

To be balanced and fair to little Discontent Baker Holmes-Watson, the five-year-old child is still learning that embezzler, miscreant, and thief are _bad_ words, and that being those things is definitely a bit not good.

Yet, as she is—

* * *

"Yes, well, and to be even _more_ fair, how is the poor girl ever going to get the message _ever_ when her daddy sounds so ecstatic as he shouts around the flat about the latest 'brilliant embezzler' or the newest 'fantastically devious miscreant' who hid their cache of rare opals in some egg mayonnaise? And, by the way Sherlock, you do know that no one uses the word miscreant anymore?"

Eyes clamped closed under a frown most thunderous, Sherlock Holmes-Watson straightened his prone body indignantly across three hard plastic A&E chairs and loudly said absolutely nothing.

To the background noise of the father of the colicky baby humming the theme tunes to _EastEnders_ and _Doctor Who_ in his little girl's ear, John remembered he was trying to divert Sherlock, not argue with him.

"Right, sorry. You were saying?"

* * *

_Yes. As we were saying…_

All of this _being fair_ is by way of explaining that, even though Discontent, like her sisters Vexation and Umbrage, is exceedingly bright, she is still only little. Therefore— _and for no other reason whatsoever—_ it is extremely understandable, verging on the ridiculously obvious, that when the child saw the ancient skull lying in the evidence box, adorned and surrounded by all of those alluringly-bright trinkets, well it was _perfectly natural_ for her to run her fingers through all that shimmering-jingling stuff, wonderful stuff that sounded like swords and the spurs she'll have on her boots one day when she's big.

So, with all that pirate treasure just sitting on Lestrade's desk and for a very little while no one else around at all, not even her persnickety papa, who—

* * *

"Hold on, wait a minute. First off, it's not persnickety to teach a child not to thieve things just because she wants them, if that's what you're talking about. And second off and more importantly there is absolutely no way we would bring a five-year-old child into the office of a London homicide detective. I mean just yesterday I watched Greg eat a chicken salad sandwich with five photos of a Thames-bloated body tucked under his coffee cup." John sniffed sharply, to further make his point. "So I'm sorry, but—"

The colicky baby's wailing rose to new heights and John belatedly remembered his _real_ point. "—but whether Dis was supposed to be there or not isn't the point. Go on, please?"

Sherlock took a very, very deep breath.

* * *

Anyway since Discontent was in Lestrade's office because her parents had been suddenly called to Scotland Yard at two in the morning and had been required to take her with them since it would have been impossible to find a sitter at such a late hour and because their little girl had a cold—but not a really bad cold just a _normal_ cold—and her sisters didn't have one and so conveniently Vex and Um were with Mrs. Hudson or Molly or _somewhere normal and safe_ and since soon after they arrived at the Met a criminal had come bursting into the Yard waving a gun and John and Sherlock had to—to—aid the police and since _the safest place_ for Discontent was in Lestrade's office which is nowhere near the duty officer's desk where all the action was happening well since _that_ was how things were Discontent was alone for _five_ bloody minutes and because she is only five and really loves skulls because she lives with one and tells Rory stories she naturally thought that she should bring _this_ ancient skull home so she could tell them _both_ stories and maybe they would tell each _other_ stories and so _that_ is how and why Discontent stole an eighteen million pound five-hundred-year-old skull carrying it home in her book bag and no one noticed until the next day.

* * *

Sherlock heaved, breathless, and by some miracle managed to glare at John though both his eyes were closed.

Then both of his eyes were carefully opened just a teeny tiny bit so he could see John gently clapping, then leaning down and looming close to kiss the side of his head. "Of course our little girls would be skull-loving pirates," he whispered in Sherlock's ear, "of course they would. Our little geniuses take after their daddy."

Sherlock also miraculously strutted and preened though he continued to lie prone and then he murmured soft against John's belly, "And because they are good people who take after their papa, Discontent texted Lestrade the next morning to tell him about what she did and he fetched the skull later that day and Discontent didn't even get in trouble because she had learned a valuable lesson."

Sherlock grinned into John's jumper, as if indeed he had a little girl and that little girl had committed a larcenous act but had _learned_ from it.

John twirled a dark curl and bit his lips so that he would not murmur into Sherlock's warm ear, "No five-year-old of _mine_ is going to have her own mobile phone so she can text god-knows-who at all hours, oh _hell_ no, sweet cakes."

No, John did not say this. Instead he twirled and twirled Sherlock's dark curls and stroked a fine cheekbone and he said something else, very soft, quite diverting, and right into that messy mop. "Remember when Umbrage wrote that essay, oh, I think she was about seven, called _Really Secret Things Nobody Knows About Sherlock Holmes, My Daddy._ Do you remember?"

The colicky baby and her parents were at last called in to consult with a nurse. Neither John or Sherlock noticed their departure. Instead Sherlock said in a voice almost childish, "Tell me?"

_...at least one more chapter of this particular storyline..._

_A bit more Vex, Um, and Dis on the way as, to be honest, it was the only way I could think of to use some of these images. P.S. Sherlock is not dying, he's only got an ear infection. And in other news: Because it's important to my little self, I'm going to continue gently[pointing you here rather regularly](http://wendycfries.com/post/112081333929/the-day-they-met-is-wendys-first-book-as-such). Thank you. _


	21. Really Secret Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was just before Easter when Umbrage Hudson Holmes-Watson crafted her report about her daddy and, so very much like her daddy, Um didn't have even the littlest idea of the tiniest clue where to draw the privacy line.

John will tell you that he is not much of a storyteller. John Watson is a liar.

This is nothing new.

For John will also tell you he doesn't dip jammy dodgers into his tea just because it drives Sherlock round the giddy bend. He'll say he doesn't steal Sherlock's cashmere socks on rainy days because when his feet get wet he craves the comforts of expensive goat hair. And John will also in all solemnity tell you he never, ever likes it when Sherlock gets rug burns on his hipbones from that thing they do in front of the fireplace each winter.

Yes, in all of these instances John Watson lies.

This by way of explaining that the good doctor briefly paused there, in the A&E waiting room of University College Hospital, and he took a moment to gather his storytelling thoughts. He need not have bothered, for John Watson, blogger, is a natural tale teller.

He knows, for example, how to wittily share last year's baked goods tragedy, the one where twenty-two people ate Christmas biscuits made not with cream but with elephant come ("That evidence helped clear a veterinarian!" Sherlock stridently reminded everyone who was fetching up sick, "And Mrs. Hudson knows better than to use unmarked items from our refrigerator!"). John also knows how to take a monograph on paper ash vis-à-vis its application to deducing the burnt contents of office rubbish bins, and craft _Paper Passion: A Study in Conflagration,_ this month's most popular blog entry.

The point is that John Watson is a liar and a storyteller and there are hardly two things that go more naturally together, except, perhaps, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

So, as the waiting room din waxed again, this time with the addition of temperamental twins, the storytelling liar used his gift to distract his love, telling him a silly tale of a serious girl.

"Well then. Once upon a time, when Umbrage Hudson Holmes-Watson was about seven-years-old, maybe even just six, she had to write a report for school..."

* * *

It was just before Easter when Umbrage crafted her missive, one meant to be about someone Um admired. Because she'd just helped Dis write about papa, Umbrage decided that she should write something about daddy. Of course, like her daddy, Um didn't have even the littlest idea of the tiniest clue where to draw the privacy line.

Shall we begin?

_Really Secret Things Nobody Knows About Sherlock Holmes, My Daddy_

This isn't a secret, but the first thing you need to know is that my daddy is the best daddy. A daddy is different from a papa, by the way. Papas are big but not as big as daddys, they also have soft hair while daddys have curly hair that gets knots in it like mine and which papa then has to brush sometimes. I don't complain about getting my hair brushed like daddy does even though my hair is a lot longer.

So anyway my daddy is the best daddy, but I just want to make sure you know my papa is the best papa and I can prove that after Easter break. That's when I can bring in Discontent's report called "Ten Cool Things No One Knows about John Watson, The Whole Reason Sherlock Holmes is So Damn Famous," but not until she gets her grade on it. I think she should get a first because it's really good and also because of that thing she mentioned about when papa used an empty coffee cup and a shoe lace to stop the Soho Strangler.

Okay, daddy is reading over my shoulder right now and he said to say what I'm trying to say and so I'll say that one really secret thing no one knows about my daddy is that daddy's toes are kind of like fingers.

My toes are too, which didn't seem weird at all until I picked up a fifty pence piece with them and my sister's friend's American mum says, "Oh my god that's so weird, can you do that again!" And then she kept giving me fifty pence pieces to pick up with my toes until I had ten of them and then later papa tried to make me return the money but daddy, who was pretending to sleep on the sofa, popped up and grabbed all of the coins with _his_ toes and said, "Umbrage earned this money. She has inherited a useful tool and is learning its parameters, she'll not be penalised in her search for knowledge. Here you go darling dear." And then daddy gave me my money back with his toes while he looked at papa from under his eyelashes.

That reminds me that another secret thing about daddy is that he calls Vex, Dis, and me darling dear when he is trying to make papa not swear. I only know this because papa once said, "You only do that so I won't call you a pretty little shit who uses his masculine wiles to get what he wants." I looked up masculine and wiles and yes daddy is a devious and cunning man who uses stratagems (which means plans) to get what he wants. Like the thing with his eyelashes which is a stratagem to make papa go all giggly and forget why he was even going to swear in the first place.

Anyway daddy's toes are like fingers and the best thing he ever taught me to do with my toes is to pick locks with the earrings that grandma Mrs. Hudson gave me because she was tired of accidentally locking herself out of her flat. She did for a little while last summer because she was dating Mr. Chatterjee and Mr. Singh at the same time and was "So tuckered out I hardly remember where I left my knickers. Oh my don't tell your papa I said that."

That summer I used my earrings and helped grandma Mrs. Hudson get into her flat five times. She gave me two humbugs each time, which reminds me of another really secret thing no one knows about my daddy is that if he eats too many sweets he will fall asleep so hard that papa thinks he's not breathing.

I know _this_ because that artist who makes life-sized skeletons out of sugar gave daddy twelve really pretty sweetie skulls when daddy proved that she wasn't smuggling cocaine through her artwork and daddy ended up eating almost all of them before papa took them away, then daddy fell asleep on the sofa and his face was in the pillow and papa thought he couldn't get enough oxygen (that means air) and he tried to roll him over but daddy fell on the floor instead. He didn't even wake up though.

That's another secret thing about daddy. He falls off the sofa sometimes when he's sleeping or thinking really hard. I try not to laugh but when papa is laughing so hard he can't breathe either, I can't help it.

I could tell you more very secret things about daddy but it's past my bedtime. I will tell you one more thing but it's not a secret: I love my daddy more than any daddy in the world. Papa does too, papa loves daddy…

* * *

"…so much, so very much."

John rubbed his nose in the hair behind Sherlock's ear, wrapped his arms tighter around Sherlock's head. And even though Sherlock's face was mashed into John's jumpered belly, and even though John thought that surely Sherlock couldn't actually breathe with his mouth and nose covered like that…

…well even so, John didn't roll Sherlock over and make sure he was getting enough air, he just kissed him behind his ear and he let his husband, his love, the daddy of his non-existent children, well he let him sleep.

_All right, two images this time because I really want to complete this advent (and this vertigo plot...next chapter) so I can complete "Keeping It Loki" so I can write[my next book](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/135717776644/who-is-that-notmasked-woman-and-where-can-you-get) to which my publisher just said yes._


	22. ...And Then There Was John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cab driver honks when three half-nude young men in body paint thump the bonnet of her cab. Sherlock glances at their rainbow-covered flesh and knows John would want him to look, admire, enjoy, but Sherlock doesn't care about the bodies of strangers.
> 
> He turns to John...

John thinks Sherlock is sleeping in the back of the taxi. Maybe he is. Sherlock actually thinks that, slow-blinking dreamily out the cab window. _Maybe I'm sleeping._

Everything seems strange.

He's curled on himself, arms and legs tucked in as if cold, but Sherlock's not cold. The cab is snug and warm. No he's not cold he's…dumb.

He tests this thought by trying to think. He stutters a sigh when he can't. Yes, dumb, that's the thing he is. He's pleasantly slow and stupid, just like that summer evening he and John sat in the weeds on the Heath, trying to catch a smuggler. The only thing they nabbed that night was hysterics. Sleep deprived and itchy, they'd startled at some noise and started laughing until they were incoherent. Sherlock remembers lying back in the grass and feeling _moronic_ and oh it was lovely.

He feels like that now, and he doesn't know why. They gave him a shot of antibiotics to cope with the ear infection, the infection that was behind the vertigo, so maybe what he feels is psychological, maybe he's just dopey with relief.

He likes it.

About the time the taxi is halted in traffic near Regent's Park—a gay pride parade by the look of it—Sherlock feels John's hand twitch on his leg. He looks over. John's asleep, passed right out with his head tilted back and his mouth open.

Sherlock's stomach does a flip. He smiles because yes, that's the word for the feeling, for what just happened in his belly, a flip is the exact right term, he understands that now.

He didn't used to.

"I went breathless."

"My stomach fell."

"My heart stopped."

Long ago, when witnesses said things like this, the man Sherlock used to be would correct their 'physiologically impossible' descriptions. He used to be proud of doing that, of being _right,_ in those stupid days when he still thought that not feeling a thing meant the thing didn't exist.

Then there was John.

Then there was John Hamish Watson, four years, eight months, and three weeks ago, spotted through a restaurant window as Sherlock bounded up the kerb, late for dinner with his landlady and his new lover.

There was John, deep in conversation, and Sherlock stopped on the pavement because it had happened to him, just then and for the first time, one of those 'physiologically impossible' things: looking through the window…he'd gone breathless.

Except of course he hadn't. He was still breathing, however boring, but just then right there, seeing John limned by warm light, Sherlock realised he would himself step into that light, into that room, he'd sit down beside John and…and he'd kiss him. Perhaps a peck on the cheek, if John didn't look up, maybe something Mrs. Hudson would tease about if John did. And this would be his new normal. Kissing John. Sitting beside him so their bodies touched. Doing this where people could see.

The revelation, brief and beautiful, why it had left him breathless.

The cab driver honks when three half-nude young men in body paint thump the bonnet of her cab. Sherlock glances at their rainbow-covered flesh and knows John would want him to look, admire, enjoy, but Sherlock doesn't care about the bodies of strangers.

He turns again to John, who's turned toward him in his sleep, and he remembers looking at the clothed body of this man who never seemed a stranger, he remembers the day his stomach did that thing that stomachs don't do.

They'd been in the Brighton Museum all day, and afterward had walked to the pier. Elated at proving rye fungus-impregnated textiles had caused the curator to go crazy, Sherlock was binging on sweets, buying Brighton rock in every colour.

It was in returning to the pier with a fistful of liquorice-flavoured sticks that Sherlock saw John, face turned up to the sun, hand on hip, and Sherlock's stomach…dropped.

Leaning against a railing, dressed warm against brisk spring breezes, John's neck and chin and jaw stood out bare in the sun and Sherlock had wanted, for no good reason at all, to suck John's skin the way he'd been sucking the sugary sticks all afternoon.

The cab inches forward a couple dozen metres and Sherlock reaches up, treacle-slow and still delightfully dim, runs two fingertips along John's beautiful jaw, just as he'd done that day near the pier.

And Sherlock remembers the time when that truly impossible thing happened, he remembers the day his heart stopped.

Like the others, this one was unexpected and had the power of religious revelation—and yes, Sherlock's known those, for every living thing understands the concept of god when in extremis, and Sherlock's had more moments of desperation than most.

They'd been at a crime scene, had literally run around the corner to find the suspects holding bloody knives against one another's throats. Sherlock is not used to other men _in extremis,_ only to the after. So he stood there for a long second staring, but John had never halted his momentum. Later he said it was sheer accident, running headlong into those two suicidal fools, knocking them both down, but Sherlock doesn't believe him.

Nor did he believe it twenty minutes later, when half of Scotland Yard was there and Sherlock felt his heart stutter itself still.

For there was John, tucked out of the way of the crime scene crew, looking round a doorjamb, and Sherlock knew for certain and for true that John would always be right there, in front of him, just behind him, or the most unbelievable thing: beside him, beside him in a morning-dozy bed or a night-dark alley.

And so his heart stood still for one very long second, to make room in his bones and blood for this certainty, and when it started beating again it did so in a lazy lub-dub, an almost drunk rhythm, giddy.

And now, here they are in the back of a taxi that can't move and Sherlock's looking at John and Sherlock's stomach just did a flip, that thing it physiologically _can not do,_ because beside him, right there in afternoon shadow in a London black cab, John sleeps, exhausted. Exhausted because he's been up with Sherlock since six this morning, when that first vertiginous stumble to his knees had thumped everyone wide-eyed.

John who spent all morning whispering with him about the shared history they do not have, who loves him so much that he loves even the children Sherlock will never give him, and there in the afternoon of a long, long day Sherlock realises he's not dumb or stupid, he's not sleepy or moronic, no.

Sherlock Holmes is in love.

Because, one day, years ago, there was John.

_Sometimes when you're no longer sick you feel dreamy, light, a bit dopey. I think that's what Sherlock feels like in the back of that cab. Happy, slow, and full of the warmth of love._


	23. Curious and Rare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock told Mrs. Hudson, who told Mycroft, who told Lestrade, who told Molly, who told Dimmock, that he and John were growing beards so as to co-chair the high-stakes Belgravia Bearded Men's Bake-Off while hunting for a gems-smuggling crook, everyone had an opinion about the pending whiskers.

London's home to many things both curious and rare.

Beneath Aldgate tube station lie 1,000 bodies, victims of a seventeenth century plague.

In Hackney lives a woman with a woman-sized skeleton tattooed on both sides of her body, including a skull over her face.

South of the River Thames a tree grows from a crack in the heart of a tombstone angel.

Yes, within her sixteen hundred square kilometres London contains many things very curious and quite rare.

But the very rarest of London's wonders is not something abstract nor something ancient. It is a man and another man, and those men are John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

Or, more properly, their beards.

When Sherlock told Mrs. Hudson, who told Mycroft, who told Lestrade, who told Molly, who told Dimmock, who told _everyone,_ that he and John were growing beards so as to co-chair the high-stakes Belgravia Bearded Men's Bake-Off while hunting for a gems-smuggling crook, everyone had an opinion about the pending whiskers.

"Facial hair really ages a man," said Mrs. Hudson.

"I hate having a beard. Damn scratchy things," said Lestrade.

"It's never something I fancied myself. It makes a man look quite disreputable," said Mycroft.

"I think being clean-shaven is important in a boyfriend. I don't like being poked at when a bearded man goes d—um, goes for a coffee. Do you want a coffee?" said Molly.

And Dimmock, well he set up a betting pool quick-smart, with quite a wide range of items on which to lay money. These including the speed of the respective beards' growth, range of colours, how much Sherlock would complain about his own beard, John's beard, the beards of strangers, and probably the beards on Highland cattle.

What no one thought to think about was that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes would grow two very different—but equally rare—beards.

Anyone who got into the betting pool with money on Sherlock's beard being the tardy grower made double their money. Sherlock Holmes' beard came in so slowly that Lestrade accused him of 1) knowing about the betting pool and so 2) trimming the beard covertly.

Sherlock's sixteen-year-old self could have reassured Lestrade that he wasn't doing that, as that boy spent one entire summer frowning in every mirror, foul tempered that where other sixteen-year-old boys had proper bristles, he had…dark ginger dust.

So no, Sherlock wasn't shaving anything but, speaking of ginger, anyone who had laid large money on John having the more dramatically-coloured beard also enjoyed a fine return. This, of course, was no surprise to close observers, who knew that it's nearly impossible to tell what colour John's eyes are, and that the hair on his head probably contains eighty-six shades of blond, white, and grey. Why _wouldn't_ his beard get in on the prismatic action?

An item that was not part of the _formal_ betting pool, though it was oft-talked about in certain quarters, was whether either John or Sherlock could pull off _sexy_ with their facial hair.

In the end, there were two answers to that question.

Yes.

And oh fuck yes.

Like so:

Sherlock, having recently been in the press for an unrelated case, decided to change his look for the bake-off. Aware that his dramatic hair is quite signature, he chopped most of it off and had it and his brows tinted a colour that would match the dark ginger beard that would eventually emerge.

The result, when everything came together, was, as one indelicate police constable said to her best friend, "A DILF, Angela. You should see him. A total, total oh-my-god DILF."

And it was true. The usually-perpetually scowling detective, he of the drama queen eye-rolls and swirling coats was—by tweed and tasteful polka dots, by a nice curl on his forehead and college-professor beard—completely transformed into someone's gorgeous, fuckable dad.

Since we're speaking of fuckable, as in _oh fuck yes,_ look at John Watson. Look at him and that beard which is nearly as big as he is small.

Against all reason a man should not look as hot as a habanero with all that face fleece (Lestrade got lyrical after four pints down at the local one night).

Well no one told John Hamish Watson this little fact, now did they?

Because even people who thought John wasn't their type started staring when he walked by. Men and women who emphatically did not like being poked at when a bearded man went down on them, well these people decided they'd make an exception for the good doctor, should he ask.

Of course he did not. Nor did Sherlock for that matter, for both had their hectic hands full getting a crash course in ganache and fondant, butter crust and lard. They spent four solid weeks before the bake-off abstaining from sex but submerging sensually into the world of pies, pastries, cakes, croissants, conserves, and creams. They were so busy preparing that neither noticed money changing hands every time they walked into the Met, neither noticed the appreciative gazes directed at themselves or their mate.

What _everyone_ noticed was the successful conclusion of the case several weeks later, when feature articles and photos were splashed all over the papers under titles like _Bearded Boffin and His Better Half Foil Billion Pound Smuggling Ring._

Which brings us to a funny little fact: No one won on the bet against John and Sherlock successfully closing the case, because no one bet against them. They may sometimes be idiots at the Met, but they're not _stupid._

Ah yes, one more thing.

When a bearded Sherlock goes down on him, John has to admit it does rather poke.

When a bearded John goes down on Sherlock, Sherlock comes like a rocket.

_So, two things: At the top, only the fact about the bodies beneath Aldgate is true, and this entire wee story is just me writing an ode to Benedict and Martin's beards here. That ode really is two words: Holy fuck. P.S.: DILF stands for 'dad I'd like to fuck.' Now you know._


	24. After the After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's not particularly mystical about the carnal, angels do not sing each time one of them comes, but that morning…oh, that morning...

John has held in his arms many days-old babies. Though he's never grown quite used to how fine their lashes, how tiny their toes, the good doctor's always seen power in those delicate bodies.

Small lungs that let loose such bellows; keen nails that scratch; wild limbs that lash and jab. Infants, he thinks, are rather like tiny, hairless dragons.

Which, of course, puts a man in mind of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock, the big-bodied man who fills a room with the lash of his coat, the heat of his words, his impatient roars, oh yes, he's _exactly_  a dragon. Except…except when he's a baby _bunny._

John only thought of him that way one time really, that afternoon of the morning they'd first made love _that_ way. John entering Sherlock's body. Penetration. Anal sex.

John's not particularly mystical about the carnal, angels do not sing each time one of them comes, but that morning…oh, that morning they'd moved so slow, they'd moved for and with each other, they'd whispered the sweetest words they knew.

When John woke after—a winter sun bathing the bed in slanted shadow—Sherlock was asleep and he was so soft and sweet and still. Despite a bladder needing emptying, John stayed there, right there, because in that dusky light Sherlock was _beautiful._

Lying in a wet spot of his own drool, snoring wheezy, pillowcase creases across his cheek, he had the heart-breaking loveliness of something small and delicate. Then he'd dozily shifted long limbs toward John's heat and that's when he became a bunny in John's heart-drunk head.

And that was directly Mr. Fairre's fault, the neighbour round the corner, don't you think it wasn't. Ninety if he was a day, Mr. Fairre had found a little rabbit in his back garden a few months back, a pink-bellied thing of fluff and magnificent ears, and he'd brought it over to show John. The thing was nestled in the man's hand with such sleepy trust that Fairre had stroked it with his thumb, cooing endearments at it. Eventually he'd murmured "Right," then went to settle the wee thing again in her nest.

John had forgotten all about that until, snuffling in the humid heat between their bodies, Sherlock had shifted languid, sleep-aimless limbs, then tucked his fist beneath his chin.

"Ooooh," John whispered, "shhhhh," he said, and he'd probably have gone on that way for awhile, thumb stroking his love's pink belly and along magnificent ears, except John's bunny turned suddenly dragon, jabbing a knee right in John's bladder.

John wheezed, whimpered, and clutched at his belly. Then the good doctor rolled out of the bed and quick-smart marched naked to the upstairs loo.

When he returned minutes later Sherlock was half-awake and shifting in the soft light, and John almost cooed again. Then, rosy-skinned and bare, Sherlock rose slow to hands and knees and instead John moaned.

Sherlock rumbled in reply, spread his legs, and _presented._

John Watson crawled back on that bed with his one true love and there in the gentle light, on a soft bed, in a warm room…they went at it and at it and _at it._ Like bunnies. Like warm, naked, grunting little _bunnies._

_Chocolamousse wanted to know what happened after[What Happened After](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2826707/chapters/6960842), and that was something like this. Thank you for asking, Chocola, I always want to tell you what came next._


	25. Don't Buy Cheap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, Sherlock in black PVC trousers, wearing a corset, eyeliner, a dozen silver rings, and six-inch glitter stilettos? Completely John's thing.

John is a bit of a penny-pincher, but he's rarely cheap when it comes to gilding his Sherlockian lily. Mostly because, well, _look_ at the man.

Lavish does not begin to do his gestalt justice, so, to get a true sense of the eye-widening whole, one must occasionally piecemeal.

Begin with ringleted hair, dramatic cheekbones, and lush lips, continue with long neck, uptilted eyes, lengthy fingers and toes, finish with an arse that would blind a strong man from grateful weeping and good god, no wonder John does not skimp, giddily gracing Sherlock with fancy knickers, high heels, sheer lingerie, come, and kisses.

So, the [very first pair of stilettos](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/16942309136/fic-how-to-kill-john-watson-easy-peasy-dear) the good doctor bought his love? Well they had real gems in the snakes' eyes, whose bodies were made of actual silver, and those glorious things, loved and beloved as they became, cost John approximately _one million pounds,_ give or take.

And you know what? The second pair of heels would have cost the same or more but, as it turns out, that pair was not meant to _privately_ embellish John's lithe love, they were meant to complete a sexy Goth outfit Sherlock needed for a case. So John bought some cheap heels off the internet, rolling his eyes the whole time. The lead singer might demand everyone in her band wear silver glitter pumps, but really, such gauche heels were just not his or Sherlock's thing.

As it turns out, Sherlock in black PVC trousers, wearing a corset, eyeliner, a dozen silver rings, _and_ six-inch glitter stilettos? _Completely_ John's thing.

And, as it turns out, John moaning and trying to suck him off through skin-tight PVC trousers right before the concert? _Totally_ Sherlock's thing.

Then, as it further turns out—because these things come in threes—Sherlock proceeded to successfully fake his way through playing bass while mercilessly teasing John at the foot of the stage. And John proceeded to pretend he was a groupie by, um, licking the toes of Sherlock's glittery shoes. Rather a lot.

The upshot of all this turning out was that Sherlock had a hard-on through the whole concert and John got salmonella poisoning. From Sherlock's shoes. From ninety minutes spent orally gratifying Sherlock's glittery shoes.

("Look, it seemed in character at the time Greg, so just stop asking. Hand me the anti-emetic again, would you?")

Glittery shoes which, along with about five hundred other pair, had at one time been stored in the barn of a Chinese duck farm. With the ducks.

("Ducks, pigs, even turtles can carry salmonella. What? Because doctors just know these things. Pass me the dry crackers again, would you?")

On the first day after the concert Lestrade's team arrested the person sending the lead guitarist tiny blackmail letters written on poisoned guitar picks (the band's ex-manager), on the second day after the concert John finally stopped vomiting, and on the third day after the concert the Baker Street boys drilled holes in the silver glitter pumps, bound them to each other, went down to Hackney—

("Look, I don't know, Greg, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Would you just let up about this case already?)

—and flung those fuckers over the first power line they found.

Afterward they had a nice cup of tea and a Chelsea bun at the Hackney Pearl, then went home and enjoyed Sherlock's PVC trousers.

Rather a lot.

_I don't even know why this story wanted to be told. Sometimes I wonder. But not about PVC trousers on Sherlock. The why of that is entirely self-evident. (P.S. I published on the weekend again, so please go back a chapter if you missed it!)_


	26. Anything Can Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some things Sherlock will not do no matter how juicy the clue, and that includes tongue-kiss Anderson (again) or bugger himself with a tentacle dildo taken straight out of the freezer (it was for a case; again). That said, no such lines adorn Sherlock's sand as concerns Dr. John Hamish Watson...

Sherlock is not above pretty much anything.

If it's for a case Sherlock will eat a gruel of dry cat food, uncooked flour, and tofu until the prison guard gives up his childish challenge and lets Sherlock through (later Sherlock will complain not about the guard pinching his bottom, nor the informant's lame 'clue,' but about the tofu).

If it's for a case, Sherlock will snoop around an empty Minsk classroom, groping disgusting things under two dozen desks in an effort to find the single scrap of paper left by an entirely different informant. Then, when caught in the act by a Belarusian security guard, Sherlock will channel his inner kitten and simply stand on a desk to make himself look intimidatingly big. (It worked.)

If it's for a case Sherlock will essentially blind himself with 'Coke bottle' glasses, and a grey, fly-away fringe, the better to impersonate an ancient, eccentric House of Lords politician, famous for sleeping during most debates, then waking at exactly the right moment to shout "Bloody bollocks, I say!"

If it's for a case, the good detective will crawl through a herd of cows, mooing, in order to find in tall grass the missing bonnet of a wrecked Aston Martin—and the hidden cache of jewels inside it. (John located the item by tripping over it, veering away from an amorous cow nosing his crotch.)

If it's for a case Sherlock will smoke three packs of clove cigarettes—which he likens to consuming decaffeinated coffee and _why would anyone do this?—_ getting so buzzed and nauseous he'll spend an hour afterward lying on the floor of a Bakerloo line tube car, listening-distracted by John's reciting a litany of every bone in the human body. (Including the bones only babies have.)

If it's for a case Sherlock will strip off everything he's wearing in a restaurant kitchen, there to don underpants, blue-black leather trousers and jacket, boots, and hazel contacts, then lounge open-legged and disaffected at a hot London nightclub, pretty bait to distract a larcenous CEO's roaming eye while John pick-pockets the purse she's left unattended between five empty martini glasses.

If it's for a case Sherlock will pretend he knows a language, doesn't know one, he'll shout or whisper, play dumb or the exact opposite, he'll cry or giggle or growl, he'll crawl up or get down, take or give, he's pretty much not above anything is the good detective, so long as it's for a clue, a case, the chance to right a wrong, complete a puzzle, find what everyone else has missed.

Yet almost isn't everything, and there are some things Sherlock emphatically will not do no matter how juicy the intel, and that includes tongue-kiss Anderson (again), bugger himself with a tentacle dildo taken straight out of the freezer (it was for a case; again), or pretend he understands Shakespeare (he hasn't tried that one even once).

That said, no such lines adorn Sherlock's sand as concerns Dr. John Hamish Watson.

If it's for John, for John, _for John,_ Sherlock will take off every costume, drop every pose, lay soul and body bare, letting each hope and hurt, need or desire, be seen by John for exactly what it is.

For John Sherlock will hum softly in their bed simply because his sweetheart is sleeping fractious, and he knows that somewhere deep John hears the nursery songs and so for another night the nightmares stay away.

For John Sherlock will earnestly make toast and tea and soup, then promise to make _better_ toast and tea and soup next time. He'll only actually succeed the time after the time after _that,_ after nearly burning down the kitchen.

For John Sherlock will smoke clove cigarettes on a case instead of real, he'll keep and sometimes wear a pair of blue-black leather trousers, and he'll shout 'bloody bollocks' in the shower because it makes John giggle. For John Sherlock will turn down an arms dealer case, he'll take one that's dead boring but pays well, and he'll even occasionally buy his one true love the abomination that is a mocha latte.

Finally, for John Watson, one of the finest things Sherlock Holmes will do is to smile his true smile.

Until the small doctor wrought such big changes in the detective's life, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, no one but Mycroft had ever even seen this rarest of fine things. And what a beautiful thing it is.

That smile? The one Sherlock smiles for John no matter where they are or who can see? That smile etches the sides of Sherlock's eyes deep with laugh lines. It brings out the faintest dimples in his cheeks. And the absolute most beautiful part of it is its lavish joy, a joy so big it's a bit lopsided, and not one whit affected or shy or restrained.

For John Sherlock will let everyone see exactly who he is and he will no longer be ashamed of any part.

Not one besotted bit of it.

_Blackmorgan and I were talking about the sorcery of Ben's face, how he can wear it almost like a costume, changing characters utterly by simply changing his expression. This was inspired by that. (One more entry and Advent is officially done at Chez Atlin. Thank you for going along with me. P.S. Remember you can see[each image full size here](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/tagged/sherlock-advent-calendars-2014).)_


	27. The Silent Witness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a closed case, when they're wound tight, John and Sherlock curl together in bed and chatter the air busy, reliving their own brilliance, reveling in the chase, laughing at the foolishness of anyone who goes against them.
> 
> Though sometimes, just sometimes...

Their bedroom is a silly place.

Within its just-us confines Sherlock once shed his clothes and his exceedingly few inhibitions, waggling his arse for John until the resulting fleshy jiggle made his cold-congested sweetheart laugh until he kind of passed out. The good doctor slept for a solid eight hours.

Their bedroom is surprising place.

Behind its closed door they once pretended to have belly button sex with Sherlock's innie and John's outtie. So devoted to the faux fucking, their own fabricated noises, and the pretend panting did each become that one of them actually came. While each is reasonably certain it was from all the unintentional frotting below-stairs, they're not _really_ sure.

Their bedroom is a challenging place.

Within the privacy of their boudoir John has diverted a good half dozen Holmesian strops by proposing abstruse wanking contest. These have included a competition for _distance,_ which Sherlock unfairly won because he was jumping on the bed at the right moment. There has been the _right here_ contests, in which a target is named and ejaculate is aimed. That has resulted in John getting it in the eye twice (both times Sherlock was, uh, shooting for John's belly button), and Sherlock getting it right dead centre in the mouth, because John Watson is a crack shot no matter _what_ he's firing.

Their bedroom is an exploratory place.

Within its four walls a naked John has bent in ways only just anatomically possible, while an equally naked Sherlock looked up his arse with a four-way speculum. Too late John realised that when you give a curious man a speculum for his birthday, and that man is regularly buggering you, well he's going to want to look right on up the location of the buggering.

Their bedroom is an experimental place.

Within the bedroom's four walls Sherlock has set fire to his own genital hair (not precisely on purpose) and showed John how he taught himself to French kiss by Frenching the skull. John, for his part, has drizzled eight types of honey on and then licked eight types of honey from Sherlock's arse hole. Oh, and while he was down there one of those times, John took _his_ turn with the damn speculum.

The bedroom is a library.

On Sherlock's bedside table there are two biographies of Bernard Spilsbury; _The Encyclopaedia of Crime, vol. IV;_ _The Joys of Gay Sex;_ a not-strictly-legal guide on how to get into eighteen London ghost stations; the journal of _Nicotine and Tobacco Research;_ a folder containing eight A4-sized photos of bees; and a honey cookbook.

On John's table there are books about penguins, Shakespeare, the history of paper, and the building of Tower Bridge. There's also _The British Medical Journal,_ the _Journal of Surgical Case Reports,_ and a glossy calendar of interesting events taking place at eight London museums John has never yet been to even one time.

Their bedroom is wordy place.

After a closed case, when they're wound tight, they'll curl together in bed and chatter the air busy, reliving their own brilliance, reveling in the chase, laughing at the foolishness of anyone who goes against them. Though sometimes, just sometimes, their words are low and soft, gentle words repeated over and over… _you couldn't have known, it happened so fast, we did all we could._ The softest and most gentle of these words are always _it's all right…all right…_ we _are all right._

Their bedroom is a safe place.

Within it a man can shed the armour of his coat, the wall of his scowl, and be seen for the many things he is, even when the things he is, the things he definitely is, is scared, uncertain, confused.

"I don't know how to do this," Sherlock whispered on one of their early nights, lying next to John in the bed neither yet called theirs. They'd shared that bed and their bodies only a dozen times and every night John slid in beside him, Sherlock would grow still and wait…wait…then when John touched him Sherlock would touch back, but not until he could be sure he wasn't wrong, not until John touched him first.

The bedroom is a classroom.

Within such a space a man who is himself a student, can teach another novice what he knows of love. "I don't either," John whispered back so long ago. "So if you'll let me I'm just going to keep reaching out to touch you, all right? Because I need to, because it makes you smile, because it makes you laugh and sigh and moan, but mostly, Sherlock, because it makes you touch me back."

The bedroom is a sacred place, Sherlock Holmes knows this now. He didn't use to.

When he'd lived alone, Sherlock's bedroom was the coldest room in his flat. He'd stack books on the bed, pile files on the floor, fill the wardrobe with 'battle gear.' Then he'd close the door against the chill shadows inside, and work himself to exhaustion in his small kitchen, more times than not curling up on the sofa because that was all he thought the transport deserved.

And then there was John. John who showed him what bedrooms were _for._ John who taught him there was just as much devotion in a rousing fuck as there was in quiet lovemaking. John, who made hymns of giggled profanities, who made a host out of lubricant and honey and wine. John made it worship to simply run fingers along hips and belly and spine, to nap and wake and nap again. And just like that Sherlock became an apostle, devotee, a hedonist.

The bedroom is a sacred place, John Watson knows this.

When John lived alone, his bedroom was also the sitting room was also the place where a gun lived was also a place with blank-screen-blinking-cursor was also his too-small-cage-prison-refuge from having no purpose. When John lived alone he'd walk London until dark, until his feet ached, until his body was as tired as his mind was restless and when he'd lay himself down to sleep he would almost pray for nightmares because at least in those he was _doing._

And then there was Sherlock, who was brilliant as the sun, who danced like flame, who burned everything around him with his invective and his genius, and right from the start John was giddy and light-blind. He followed Sherlock, a willing fuel for the man's fire, and when he found that behind the sharp words and the look-at-me dance there was _heart…_ oh then something happened to John Watson that had never happened before. He fell in love.

Oh yes, the bedroom in 221B Baker Street is many things, both sacrosanct and profane.

What goes on inside that bedroom is beautiful and rare and sometimes wearying. It's utterly ordinary or eye-wideningly strange, and above all it is theirs and theirs alone.

Though sometimes, just sometimes, it's Rory's too, their silent witness, the skull not _always_ on the mantel. But don't ask her what she sees there, for she will never tell.

_If I gathered up all the stories Chocolamousse inspired through comments, prompts, or the metaphorical fluttering of her French eyelashes, I'd have a massive bouquet of fics, and at its centre would be this last in my 2014 Advent series. Thank you, Chocola, for asking about what happens inside the bedroom at 221B. And thank you all who have patiently allowed Advent to last far beyond its time. That you stay with me, that you read my stories is a never ending gift, every time, every.single.time. Thank you._


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